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She stood just inside the door that Susan had closed behind her 




i 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 

‘"THROUGH THE WINTER." 





I KNOW NOT WHERE HiS ISLANDS LIFT 
Their fronued palms in air ; 

I only know I CANNOT DRIFT 
Beyond His love and care.— JVhit^ier. 



The American Sunday-School Union, 

1122 Chestnut Street. 


8 AND lo Bible House, New York. 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1882, by 
The American Sunday-School Union, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


FIlRQUSON BROS. & CO., 
ELEOTROTYPERS, PHILADELPHIA. 


'/Z- 


I offer this story to the young Sunday- 
School girls of the country, with the hope 
that it will help them to recognize, in all the 
changes of their lives, the loving purpose 
and beautiful design of their Father in 
heaven : to lead them, by all the windings 
and turnings - of their way, more surely 
homeward ; that is — Heavenward. 

THE AUTHOR. 


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THE 




CHAPTER I. 

THE WATCHWORD. 

“ Do thy duty : that is best ; 

Leave unto thy God the rest.” — Longfellow, 

“ T BELIEVE I could do it if I tried.” And 
JL with this expression of confidence in her 
own ability Mildred Hathaway dropped wearily 
into a chair, as if power for further action had 
suddenly left her. 

Well, why don’t you try, then ? ” 

“ Because I — don’t dare.” 

Whew ! ” And the girl’s companion, a young 
man, standing before the fire, drew a long breath, 
and tapped his foot impatiently against the 
fender. 

That’s just the way with you girls, Mildred,” 
he said, presently. “You are forever dreaming 
of the great things you would do if you had the 
opportunity ; but when it comes to attempting 
some simple every-day act of Christian charity, 

( 5 ) 


6 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


that with a little courage and self-denial could, 
perhaps, be easily done — bah ! Your timidity — 
which is only another name for selfishness — 
shows itself, like the donkey’s ears, through all 
the fine lion-skin disguise of your beautiful 
dreams ; and the good, true work God sent you, 
and meant you should do, is left by you un- 
done, because, forsooth, you do not dare to 
undertake it.” 

The scornful tone and stern emphasis of the 
speaker made his sharp plain words doubly 
cutting; and with a flushed face and troubled 
eyes the girl looked at him. 

“ Robert,” she said, earnestly, ‘*you don’t 
understand.” 

“ Dulness of comprehension is a blessing, 
then,” the young man retorted, and I am very 
well content not to understand.” 

“ You might try to do so, though,” Mildred 
urged ; “ and if you would only put yourself in 
my place for a minute, you would not be quite 
so severe in your judgment.” 

Robert Hathaway looked down on his sister 
with a rather contemptuous smile. 

Your place looks like a very comfortable 
one, just now,” he said, coolly; “and such sym- 
pathy as you have just expressed seems very 
beautiful, Mildred ; but if it will prompt you to 
do nothing more than merely shed a few tears 


THE WATCHWORD. 


7 


here by this warm fire, it is as worthless as a 
cancelled postage stamp. In this world the 
sympathy that, like mercy, ' blesseth him that 
gives and him that takes,’ is a sympathy that, 
clasping hands with self-denial, is not afraid to 
act. So much, at least, I fully understand.” 

^^But, Robert,” the girl persisted, “suppose 
Uncle Wallace should be terribly angry ; sup- 
pose I should only make matters worse instead 
of better by venturing to interfere ; suppose — ” 

“ Suppose a comet should strike the earth and 
knock us all to atoms,” Robert broke in, impa- 
tiently ; “ I don’t want to suppose anything, 
Mildred; the facts are quite enough for me ; and 
if you would only think more of them, and less 
of possible disagreeable consequences to your- 
self, it is my belief you might do some good by 
speaking to Uncle Wallace. And, any way, 
whether you fail or succeed, if you only try, you 
will have done What you could.” 

“But is it really my duty?” Mildred ques- 
tioned, in a tone that seemed to plead for a 
negative answer. “ Will it not be impertinent 
for me to speak to Uncle Wallace ? have I any 
right, young as I am, to meddle with the matter? 
I’d like to help the poor child, but, after all, she 
has no real claim upon me. I don’t know any 
reason why I should expose myself to Uncle 
Wallace’s anger for her sake.” 


8 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


** No reason, except a very simple one to be 
found in your Testament, Mildred. It strikes 
me you would do well to review your last Sun- 
day-school lesson. You seem to have forgotten 
that your neighbor is every one, no matter how 
small and poor, who comes within the reach of 
your influence. And that your duty to help 
and bless others, in every possible way, is lim- 
ited, not by your inclinations, but only by your 
opportunities.” Robert Hathaway paused and 
looked at his sister, as if expecting a reply ; but 
with her hands folded in her lap, Mildred re- 
mained silent, looking soberly into the fire ; and 
after waiting a while, her brother took his book 
and went out. 

Left alone, Mildred sat a long time in the 
quiet parlor, busy with thoughts that were evi- 
dently grave and distasteful. 

‘‘I don’t want to do it,” she said, with slow 
reluctance, much as if she were making a con- 
fession to some one unseen. “ It’s the hardest, 
most disagreeable duty I’ve ever had to per- 
form. But then, I don’t suppose that makes 
any difference. I’m beginning to think duty 
always is hard. I don’t know that I have ever 
found an easy *You ought’ in this world yet. 
Oh, dear! if one could only choose pleasant 
things, that one would really enjoy for one’s 
work, life wouldn’t be quite so difficult.” 


THE WATCHWORD. 


9 


Slowly, like one in a dream, Mildred took 
out and opened a little pocket-diary. Slowly 
she turned the leaves, till she found a certain 
date, and very slowly then she read : 

My watchword, chosen not for a year, but for a lifetime. 

‘ Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.’ ” 

The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she closed 
the little book and replaced it in her pocket. 

“ Yes, that is my watchword,” she said sadly; 
‘‘ but I am like a soldier, who, after swearing 
obedience, deserts at the first signs of conflict 
anS danger. But I will not be so^ cowardly,” 
she continued, with energy; “it is very hard, and 
I think now I might as well attempt to awake 
the seven sleepers as influence Uncle Wallace; 
but, still, as Robert said, it is my duty to try, 
and if at all, why then at once.” 

Rising and giving herself a vigorous shake, as 
if she hoped in that way to rouse her faltering 
courage, Mildred left the parlor, and ran quickly 
up-stairs to her room. 

“ Rachel,” she said, to a middle-aged, pleas- 
ant-faced woman, who sat there quietly knitting, 
“ Rachel, light the lamp, and get ready to go 
out with me, please ; I am going to see Uncle 
Wallace.” 

“ This nicht. Miss Mildred ? has he sen’ for 
ye?” 


10 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


No, he hasn’t sent for me : I’m sent to him, 
which is a good deal more to the purpose. A 
little work the angels seem to have forgotten 
has fallen into my hands, Rachel ; so we must 
hurry, for the only time for such work is now.” 

“ Miss Mildred ! ” And Rachel looked at her 
young mistress half reprovingly for an instant ; 
but then her serious expression softened^ and 
she said slowly, with a quaint Scotch accent : 

“ * Wha’soe’er her han’ foun’ to do, she did it 
wi’ her might’ Miss Mildred, dear, I hope 
’at wull always be true o’ ye.” 

“ Oh, Rachel ! ” and the girl’s bright head 
drooped with shame as she spoke. “You don’t 
know how much I dislike to do this work to- 
night; will it always be so hard for me to do 
right, Rachel ? will my duty never seem to me 
sweet and easy ? ” 

“ My bairn,” and the motherly Scotch woman 
laid her hand fondly on the young girl’s, “ye’re 
vera young yit, an’ it is na sic a lang time syne 
ye began to walk heavenward. Ye’re like a 
sma’ wean takin’ its first steps ; ilka wee thorn 
an’ stane hinders an’ hurts ye noo ; but wait a 
wee, an’ ye’ll gro’ stronger; an’ Miss Mildred, 
dear, I ken but ane way to mak’ 'duty sweet, an’ 
’at is to lo’e unselfishly.” 

Mildred did not answer ; with quick, nervous 
fingers, she prepared herself for her visit ; swal- 


THE WATCHWORD. U 

lowed the light supper, that with kind thought- 
fulness Rachel insisted on her taking ; and then, 
in the early evening, before the red light in the 
western sky had fairly faded, started with her 
faithful companion on her errand. 

Mildred Hathaway was only a school-girl of 
seventeen ; too young to have had much expe- 
rience of life and its duties, and naturally too 
ease-loving and self-indulgent not to shrink with 
dread from anything involving earnest, perhaps 
painfu] effort, as self-denial and reproach for the 
sake of another’s happiness. But within a few 
months a change had passed over Mildred’s 
heart and life. 

Two or three days after this change she found 
herself alone with her pastor in his study ; and 
after she had told her story, and listened to his 
words of affectionate interest and counsel, she 
ventured to say : 

“ I want a watchword, now. Dr. Gilman. I 
want to take some one of the Bible commands 
as the guide of my conduct, the law of my life : 
will you give me one ? ” 

With keen, kind eyes. Dr. Gilman looked at 
the young girl. He knew she was one who 
would never be satisfied with low attainments ; 
that however far she might fall below her ideal, 
still, before her, that ideal would always rise; 
and, with a grave gentleness, as he turned the 
leaves of his Testament, he said : 


12 


ON THE WA V HOME. 


“ Here is a watchword for you, my child ; will 
you take it ? 

And following his finger, Mildred read : 

‘‘ ‘ Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it! ” 

Will you take it, Mildred ? ” the good man 
repeated. “ Remember it is a trumpet that gives 
forth no uncertain sound. It involves a solemn 
acceptance of a Master, in whose service there 
must be no half-hearted obedience, no loyalty 
that falters between mine and thine.” 

“What does it mean? ” Mildred asked, as if 
she only half understood. 

“ It means,” Dr. Gilman said, earnestly, “ that 
you are to be one of those who follow the Master 
at his first call, Mildred. And that you are to 
look upon all you are, and have, or may ever 
have, as belonging to him ; to be employed at 
his bidding, and resigned at his word. Are you 
ready, Mildred ? quite ready to take this as the 
watchword of your life ? ” 

Mildred stood with downcast eyes for a min- 
ute : then she said humbly : 

“ I must pray over it first. Dr. Gilman ; but I 
think — ^yes — I think — I will take it. ’ 

Days and weeks had passed since then, and 
Mildred had sought faithfully to be true to her 
watchword. But in her calm, untroubled life 
there had been little strain upon her outwardly, 
and when we are sailing in smooth waters, it is 


THE WATCHWORD. 


13 


always easier to imagine how we would face the 
storm, than it is to meet it and when it breaks 
upon us, to come out of it victorious. 

Her parents were absent in Europe, travelling 
for her mother’s health; and Mildred and her 
brother Robert were left in their home to con- 
tinue their studies, and prepare for the respon- 
sible duties that would claim them when school- 
days and school-books were closed. 

Faithfully tended by the old family servants, 
in the enjoyment of all the blessings wealth and 
affection could lavish upon her, and happy in the 
companionship of a brother who, however sternly 
he might sometimes, in the majesty of young 
manhood, rebuke her girlish follies, still de- 
lighted in her, and made her happiness his 
tenderest care, Mildred had little to try her — 
few actual, disagreeable duties to come in sharp 
contact with her pleasant dreams, and humble 
her with the sad contrast between what she was 
and what she dreamed of being. 

But if we are truly Christ’s disciples; if we 
are faithfully striving to follow him, and do his 
will, he will not forget to send us some work to 
do for him. Surely as the sunshine of heaven 
falls across our way, there will fall with it some 
opportunity for unselfish obedience, or for self- 
forgetful service for others, by the doing, or not 
doing of which, we will be proved, and searched, 


14 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


and taught plainly, whether love of Christ, or 
love of self, is the ruling power of our soul. 

A mile or more from Mildred’s home, in a 
large, dark house, whose closed doors and win- 
dows looked as if the sunshine, like a burglar, 
could only force its way in through some un- 
guarded crack or crevice, lived Mr. Wallace 
Oxford, her mother’s brother. 

He was a man of great wealth, as the tax 
books of the town would show ; but he was at 
the same time poorer than many a laborer who 
carries his tin pail to and from his daily work. 

^ In early manhood he had met with a bitter 
disappointment: where he had trusted he had 
been, as he believed, cruelly deceived ; and from 
that time he had hardened his heart against all 
his fellow-men. 

Stern and reserved in his manner, harsh in his 
judgments, suspicious always of the motives and 
intentions of others, Mr. Oxford had isolated 
himself from his friends and acquaintances until, 
except in his business relations, he had little 
more intercourse with the world around him 
than if he had been, as perhaps in one sense he 
was, the man with the iron mask. 

Thus alone in his great house, buried among 
his books, and served by two grave, quiet ser- 
vants, a middle-aged man and his wife, Mr. 
Oxford had lived for many years. Recently his 
family had received an unexpected addition. 


THE WATCHWORD. 


15 


One day, 4ate in the afternoon, his solitude 
was disturbed by a furious ring of the door-bell, 
followed soon by the entrance of his servant 
woman. 

“ Mr. Oxford,” she said, “ the expressman has 
just been here.” And there she stopped, as if 
uncertain what her next words should be. 

“ The expressman ! Pray what has he 
brought ? ” 

“ If you please, sir, a little girl.” 

A little girl ! ” Mr. Oxford laid down his 
book and looked sharply at his servant. 

“ What did he do that for ? Is there so much 
sunshine about this house that he mistook it for 
the foundling asylum ? ” 

“ No, sir ; he said she was sent to you.” 

“ Sent, was she ? Well, has she brought a 
piano and lap-dog with her, as certificates of her 
good birth and breeding ? ” 

‘*No, sir; she has only a little, old, black 
trunk.” 

‘^A little — old — black — trunk. This business 
begins to look serious, Susan ; where is she ? ” 
In the hall.” 

“ Well, bring her in. I suppose,” Mr. Oxford 
continued to himself, as Susan went on her 
errand, “ I suppose this is some new dodge for 
extorting money. But if there is any one word 
in the English language that, in these days of 


16 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


quibbles about pronunciation, I am not afraid to 
speak, it’s No. And she’ll soon find I can say 
that plainly and emphatically.” 

Even as he spoke the door opened, and a 
little girl stepped timidly over the threshold. 

A child, but little more than ten years old, with 
soft, violet gray eyes, and masses of tangled 
golden curls, she stood just inside the door that 
Susan had closed behind her, looking with wish- 
ful, pleading face towards Mr. Oxford. 

It seemed as if even a heart of stone must be 
touched with her evident loneliness and beauty, 
but Mr. Oxford only looked colder and harder 
than usual. 

“What is your name?” he asked, sternly. 

“ Lilian Gray Hastings.” 

Something like a shadow crossed for an in- 
stant Mr. Oxford’s usually immovable face; but 
when he spoke, his voice was even harsher than 
before. 

“ Where is your father? ” 

“ He — he’s in — heaven ; ” the child answered, 
with a sob. 

There was a brief silence, and Mr. Oxford 
passed his hand once or twice across his face 
before he spoke again. 

“ How did you come here ? ” 

“ Papa sent me. He said I was to come to a 
kind gentleman, who would be my papa now.” 


THE WATCHWORD. 


17 


And the little girl looked tearfully at Mr. Oxford, 
but he neither stirred nor spoke. 

“ He sent you a letter, sir ; ” she ventured to 
say, in a moment. 

“Where is it?” 

' Taking it from her pocket, the child handed it 
to him ; and going to one of the windows, Mr. 
Oxford broke the seal, and by the fast fading 
daylight read. 

Denver, Colorado, Nov. 27M, 18 — . 

My Dear Wallace : — Many long years have passed since 
we were boys together, and through tbe strange chances and 
changes of life, we have never met, and rarely heard from 
each other, since in the early flush of manhood we parted, to 
take our places, and do our work in the world. In that world 
Wallace, I have learned many bitter lessons, and experienced 
many crushing losses ; but through them all I have never lost 
my faith in your friendship, my confidence in your goodness 
and truth. 

I am very sick now ; they tell me I am dying, and the words 
of the dying must be few and earnest. My wife died two years 
ago ; and widowed in heart, and disappointed in all my earthly 
ambitions, there is little reason why I should cling to life, or 
grieve to leave it, save for this : I have a child, Wallace, my 
one little ewe-lamb. Through all my bereavements God has 
spared her to me ; and she has been the light of my eyes, the 
joy of my life until now. But now, the thought of leaving her 
in her innocence, loneliness and destitution, breaks my heart. 
There are none here with whom I can trust her. My sister I 
suppose to be dead, I have no friends in my old home to whom 
I can send her, and in my trouble I turn to you. Once, long 
ago, through one who was dear to me, your life was darkened. 
Now, at this late hour, will you accept the only compensation 
2"^ * B 


18 


ON THE WA V HOME. 


I can give, and into your home and heart receive my child, to 
be your sunshine as she has been mine ? 

Will you take her, Wallace ? And, reading in this, my last 
gift to you, how entirely I trust you, will you be faithful to that 
trust ? 

It will be useless for me to send this letter in the hope of 
receiving a reply : before one could reach me I shall be beyond 
the giving and receiving of earthly messages. I shall make 
arrangements to have her sent to you at once when I am gone. 
You will take her, my friend ? The Lord deal kindly by thee, 
as thou shalt deal by her. 

Yours in a friendship that will survive death, 

WiNTHROP Hastings. 

Wallace Oxford read and re-read this letter, 
and then stood a long time holding it in his 
right hand, and absently tapping it against his 
left. 

Many old memories, securely buried he had 
fancied, were stirring in their graves. Old hopes 
and dreams were rising from their ashes. 

Winthrop Hastings had been the dearest 
friend of his boyhood and early manhood. It 
was Winthrop’s sister whose deception had 
marred and blighted all his life ; and the child 
standing by his fire, sent as her father’s dying 
gift to him, bore the name he had once thought 
•the sweetest in the world, but for long years 
had neither uttered nor heard : Lilian Gray 
Hastings. 

Angels and fiends were met in fiercest com- 
bat in one poor human heart — which would 


THE WATCHWORD. 


19 


conquer? Presently Mr. Oxford turned and 
walked towards the fire ; his arms were tightly 
folded, and his lips sternly compressed. With- 
out speaking he rang the bell. 

“ Susan,” he said, as the servant came in, 
“ this child is the daughter of a man I once 
knew. He is dead, and she has come to live 
here. Take her away; supply her wants and 
take care of her ; when I want to see her . I’ll 
send for her.” 

The little girl had listened with eager atten- 
tion to his words. Now, as he stopped, she 
made a quick move, and, eluding Susan’s out- 
stretched hand, sprang to his side. 

*‘Am I going to stay here?” she asked, earn- 
estly, “ please, sir, am I going to stay here and 
be your little girl ?” 

My little girl ! Humph ! I don’t think I 
have any room in my heart for such a posses- 
sion. You’ll stay here, however, child, and 
Susan will take care of you ; ancf now away 
with you : don’t let me be bothered any more.” 

“ Stop a moment, though,” he added, as 
Susan and her little charge went towards the 
door. “ What name did your father call you ?” 
Lily.” 

Yes, I supposed so. Well, child, I don’t 
like lilies, I never plant them in my garden ; I 
never want to see them or hear them spoken of. 


20 


ON THE WA V HOME. 


You'll have to change your name now; here- 
after you will be Gray Hastings, and you need 
not ever speak or tell your first name. Do you 
understand?” he questioned, impatiently, as the 
little girl looked at him with wondering eyes. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Then, go.” 

But once again, as if she could not be re- 
pulsed, the child went to him. 

“Won’t you kiss me good-night, sir?” she 
asked, sweetly, holding up her innocent pure 
lips to him. 

He looked at her ; and, tracing in the young 
child-face a resemblance to another face he had 
once thought “ the sweetest that e’er the sun 
shone on,”‘ hardened his heart yet more. 

“ Kiss you,” he said, gruffly, “ no, I don’t 
believe in kisses; they are worthless things — 
always have been since ‘Judas kissed his Mas- 
ter.’ Bread and butter will do you more good 
than kisses, ^nd Susan will give you enough 
of that. There, go : don’t wait any longer.” 

Poor little Gray. Was it any wonder that 
the bread and butter, so unlovingly bestowed, 
choked her as she ate it ? or that she cried her- 
self to sleep that night, and awoke the next 
morning with a sad, hopeless expression on her 
sweet young face? 

Many weeks had passed since then; the 


THE WATCHWORD. 


21 


Christmas bells had rung forth their greeting of 
peace and good-will; and the last snows of 
February were now covering the ground; but 
the child’s life had seen no change for the 
better. 

Mr. Oxford never sent for her, and she never 
saw him near enough to speak to him. She 
lived entirely in the basement with Susan and 
her husband Peter. 

They were a plain, well-meaning couple, but 
without children, and with as little knowledge 
of the needs and tastes of a delicate, sensitive 
child, as a pair of well-fed domesticated ducks 
might be supposed to have of a humming bird’s. 

Gray was not sent to school. Mr. Oxford did 
not speak of it, and Susan and her husband con- 
sidered it no concern of theirs. No employ- 
ment of any kind was furnished her. The few 
books, and the dear old doll, that had been her 
treasures in her western home, lay neglected in 
the bottom of her trunk. She could not play 
with them now, and the mere sight of them was 
sure to cause a passionate fit of weeping, that 
only left her head aching and her heart sadder 
than before. 

With her little face pressed wearily against 
one of the panes of the back basement window, 
she moped through the days; with a pitiful 
longing for the love and petting that had once 


22 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


been hers, she cried herself to sleep nights, and 
was already so sadly changed that even her own 
father would scarcely have recognized his bright, 
beautiful Lily, in the pale, listless child she had 
become. 

Looking at her, and seeing how thin her face 
was growing, and how clearly the blue veins 
showed through the delicate skin, a stranger 
might well have said, as Susan did to Peter : 

“ The child isn’t long for this world.” 

And, in his heart, perhaps, if he had known 
her history he would have echoed Peter’s plain 
yet not unfeeling answer, 

“ Wal, I dunno but the sooner she goes the 
better.” 

But God’s thoughts are not as our thoughts ; 
and in his plan for the little one there were long 
beautiful lessons of his love and goodness to be 
learned, and years full of blessedness to be 
enjoyed, before the time for her going home 
should come. 

And so one morning it chanced, as Susan 
said — but through all her life Gray never 
doubted that God was behind the chance — that 
she wanted one of Rachel’s recipes for making 
a plum-pudding, and, taking Gray with her, 
went to the Hathaways. 

There was little communication between the 
two families even when Mrs. Hathaway was at 


THE WATCHWORD. 


23 


home ; and in her absence months i.ad passed 
since Mildred had seen, or even heard ^I'om her 
uncle, and of Gray’s existence she was e?.tirely 
ignorant until Rachel, pitying the forlorn ch'W 
brought her to her room. 

“ Miss Mildred,” she said, “ this wee lassie is 
livin’ at yer uncle’s hoose, noo, an’ Susan 
brought her here : wull ye try to amuse her while 
Susan an’ I talk o’er our business?” 

Gray spent two or three happy hours with 
Mildred in her sunny room, and went home 
brighter and gayer than she had been in many 
days. Mildred’s kindness did not stop there. 
Attracted by the child’s sweet face and manners, 
she questioned Susan, and learned all she could 
of her history. Her warm impulsive heart was 
deeply touched ; several times since she had 
called for Gray and taken her out for a walk or 
ride; and while she petted the lonely child, she 
resolved in her own mind a great many schemes 
for her relief, but none of them seemed feasible. 

She could not apply to her parents, for 
though she knew well how quickly their kind 
hearts would have opened to the orphaned 
child, they were too far away, and in' Mrs. 
Hathaway’s delicate state it was cruel to annoy 
her with new stories of her brother’s heartless- 
ness. Mildred could ask no advice from that 
quarter ; and possessing a full share of family 


24 


Cn the wa y home. 


pride, she shrank from going to outsiders with 
her story. At last she took Robert into her 
confidence, and consulted with him as to what 
-CTuld be done. 

“For,” said Mildred, in her decided way, 
“ something must be done, Robert, or Gray will 
die, and, if any one is to help her, we must ; 
though how we are to do it is a question. I’d 
like to have you answer, for I am sure I can- 
not.” 

^ Robert had listened, full of sympathy and 
interest, and full as well of bitter indignation at 
his uncle’s conduct. 

“ Of course something must be done,” he an- 
swered Mildred now. “ It is a cruel shame for 
any child to be obliged to live such a lonely, 
dreary life. But then, you see, Mildred, this 
child is under the protection of the rich Mr. 
Oxford ; and to beard the lion in his den, and 
force him to change his treatment of her, would 
be a pretty difficult task for any one to under- 
take. It would require weapons that are not 
forged in every arsenal. I couldn’t do it ; I 
could tell him my opinion of him, perhaps, if 
that would do any good, but to plead with him 
requires more grace than I possess. I tell you, 
Mildred, if anybody does it, it will have to be 
you.” 

Then it was that Mildred uttered her self- 
confident speech : 


THE WATCHWORD. 


25 


** I believe I could do it if I tried.” 

She was more braver in thought than in 
action, this young, impulsive girl, and her hasty, 
boastful words were bitterly repented the next 
instant. Gladly would she have recalled and 
forgotten them ; but Robert’s stern reproof for- 
bade her doing so, and after an hour of painful 
hesitation, in which she vainly sought either to 
forget her watchword, or find some excuse from 
the task that seemed laid upon her, Mildred 
nerved herself to undertake it. 

3 


CHAPTER 11. 


PLEADINO. 


“ Distasteful things, done for the sake of conscience, after- 
wards become remembered pleasures .” — Mary Cowden Clark, 



'HE stars were bright in the winter’s sky, 


A when after a long, brisk walk, Mildred 
stood alone on her uncle’s stoop. Rachel had 
gone a short distance beyond to see a friend, 
promising to return for her in an hour. With 
nerves tingling with excitement, Mildred rang 
the bell and waited for admittance. The door 
was soon opened ; Susan exclaiming in surprise 
as she saw her : 

Why, Miss Mildred, is it you ? and do you 
want to see Gray ? She’s gone to bed with a 
headache, but it will be cured, I guess, when I 
tell her you’ve come.” 

‘‘No, don’t tell her anything, Susan,” Mil- 
dred answered ; “ I only want to see my uncle 
to-night ; is he home ? ” 

“You’ll find him in the library. Miss Mildred ; ” 
and the next minute Mildred tapped lightly on 
the library door. 


(26) 


PLEADING. 


27 


‘‘Come in,” Mr. Oxford called; and with a 
beating heart, she obeyed him. 

Mr. Oxford was reading; and supposing the 
intruder was one of the servants, he did not 
trouble himself at once to look up. Mildred 
waited in silence, glad of a few moments in 
which to draw a long breath and collect her^ 
thoughts. 

At last, after he had turned several pages, and 
reached the end of his chapter, Mr. Oxford con- 
descended to raise his eyes. 

“ Why, is it you, Mildred ? ” he asked in sur- 
prise, as he caught sight of the girl standing be- 
fore the door ; “ what has brought you here, to- 
night ? come to the fire.” And with more kind- 
ness than he usually showed, Mr. Oxford stirred 
the fire, and offered Mildred a chair. 

“ What is the matter ? what has brought you 
here at this hour ? ” he asked again, as Mildred 
seated herself 

“ I wanted to see you, Uncle Wallace.” 

“ Hum ! ” Mr. Oxford looked at Mildred, a 
little uncertain whether to indulge his sarcastic 
tongue and give the answer that trembled there, 
or await further revelations. He decided on the 
latter course. 

“ It is late ; did you come alone ? ” he asked. 

“ No, sir ; Rachel came with me.” 

“ Very good ; she is a sensible woman ; you 


28 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


were safe enough under her protection. You 
are not in any trouble at home, Mildred? You 
haven’t had any bad news from abroad ? ” 

“No, sir; we are all well at home, and mamma 
was much better when she wrote last.” 

“ Glad to hear it, I am sure. Will you have 
some refreshments, Mildred? Did you have 
dinner before you left home ? “ 

“No, sir; thank you — yes, sir; all I wanted/* 
Mildred answered hurriedly to both questions. 

Again Mr. Oxford looked at her. 

“Are you warm enough ? ’’ he asked, giving 
the fire another vigorous kick. 

“Yes, sir; very comfortable.” 

“You look so,” he said ironically; for Mil- 
dred’s face was flushing and paling, and her lips 
trembling so she could scarcely speak. 

“ Well, Mildred,” Mr. Oxford continued, 
“ since you are as comfortable as you say, and 
there is nothing I can do to make you more so 
— physically, at least — let us proceed to busi- 
ness. Of course, I know your affection for me 
never prompted you to take this long walk at 
this hour, so we will not pretend that it did. At 
the same time I am quite sure some very im- 
portant matter did bring you here, and, if you 
please, Mildred, I’d like to hear it at once.” 

“ Uncle Wallace,” Mildred said earnestly, “ I 
wanted to speak to you about little Gray.” 


PLEADING. 


29 


Did you ? it’s very kind in you, certainly. 
Well, I am ready to hear you, Mildred; what 
have you to say ? ” 

“ She is a very beautiful child, Uncle Wal- 
lace.” 

In spite of himself a gleam of humor shone in 
Mr. Oxford’s eyes. 

“ Is she ? I’m charmed to hear it. I might 
never have discovered the fact left to myself, but 
now that you have taken the trouble to come 
nearly two miles to inform me of it, I shall never 
presume to doubt it. But, Mildred, what do 
you want me to do for this very beautiful child ? 
give her a looking-glass ? ” 

I don’t know what good that would do her, 
Uncle Wallace.” 

“ Don’t you ? neither do I. But, Mildred, if 
that is not your wish, be good enough to tell me 
frankly what you do desire. Don’t try to feel 
your way, as if you were groping through one 
of the old Roman catacombs, and had no thread 
to guide you. I dislike all prefaces, so speak 
quickly and to the point. What do you want?” 

'‘Uncle Wallace,” Mildred said, as she looked 
at him with her earnest, truthful eyes, ” I want 
to ask you to treat little Gray more kindly.” 

There was no doubt but Mildred had spoken 
to the point now. Mr. Oxford’s eyes flashed, 
and his usually pale, dark face, glowed with 
anger. 


30 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ You do ? Well, Mildred, I want now to ask 
you to mind your own business. By what right 
do you presume to come here and criticise my 
treatment of a little pauper, who, if it were not 
for my kindness, would now be in the alms- 
house? What do you know about her, any- 
how?” he demanded sternly. 

“ Not much. Uncle Wallace,” Mildred an- 
swered, speaking as well as she could for the 
tears that were nearly choking her ; “ but I have 
seen her several times, and taken her out ; and 
Susan told me what she knew, and oh ! I do feel 
so sorry for her.” 

*‘And why, pray?” 

“ Because she is so lonely and friendless, and 
seems so sad and hopeless.' Uncle Wallace, a 
sad child seems to me one of the most pitiful 
sights in the world. I don’t know how any 
Christian can see one and not long to comfort it 
and make it happy.” 

If you please, Mildred, I am talking business 
with you now. Be good enough to spare me 
your sentimental outbursts. I lost my taste for 
sugar and water long ago. Tell me now of 
what does Gray complain.” 

“ Complain ! of nothing, Uncle Wallace. She 
is so young, and the change in her life so 
sudden and complete, that I don’t think she 
half understands it. She is hardly used to her 
new name yet.” 


PLEADING. 


31 


Mr. Oxford smiled grimly. It is a very 
good name, nevertheless,” he said, “and will 
suit her all the better as the years go by. But 
if she makes no complaint, Mildred, why should 
you ?” 

“ Because I cannot look quietly on and see 
her die,” Mildred exclaimed, with spirit. “ She 
is like some one taking every day a drop of a 
slow poison; if it goes on much longer, Uncle 
Wallace, you will kill her.” 

“ Kill her ? Be careful, Mildred. Though 
you are my sister's child beware how you pre- 
sume too far.” 

“ I don’t mean to presume at all,” Mildred 
said, while she sobbed bitterly. “ I am very 
sorry to make you angry. Uncle Wallace, and I 
don’t want to be disrespectful. But there is no 
one who knows and loves little Gray as I do ; 
and how can I pray for mercy for myself if I 
let my fear of your anger keep me from plead- 
ing for her ? Uncle Wallace, I won’t ask you to 
forgive me, but won’t you be kinder to her?” 

Mr. Oxford moved uneasily ; and as his right 
hand sought the pocket where the letter Gray 
had brought him was safely hidden, he seemed 
to read again the words : 

“ The Lord deal kindly by thee, as thou shalt 
deal by her.” 

There might be very little truth and unselfish 


32 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


love in the world, as he believed, but he knew 
that his sister’s daughter was true and unselfish 
as she sat there, braving his sternest indigna- 
tion for the sake of a helpless child ; and for a 
moment he felt half inclined to say : 

“ Have your own way, Mildred ; do what you 
can to make Gray happy, and I will aid you.” 

But the next instant the old, bitter memories 
came trooping back, and the old scorn and 
pride, like an incoming tide, swept over his 
soul. 

” Mildred,” he said, haughtily, “ I have no 
ambition to be the founder of an orphan asylum : 
even this one child, here in my house, is de- 
cidedly one too many. But she was sent here ; 
committed to my care by one whom — no mat- 
ter, it is not needful I should tell you her story. 
It is enough to say that I have accepted the 
responsibility thrust upon me, and intend to 
keep Gray here. A home, and food, and rai- 
ment I am willing to give her, and she will 
prove an exception to most of her sex if in 
them she cannot find happiness.” 

“ She will have to pretend dreadfully hard if 
she is to find happiness in them alone,” Mildred 
broke in, indignantly ; “ harder than the poor 
little Marchioness in the Old Curiosity Shop, 
when she made believe orange-peel and water 
was as good as wine.” 


PLEADING. 


33 


Mr. Oxford’s lip curled scornfully. 

Do not distress yourself unnecessarily, Mil- 
dred. To pretend and to deceive are arts in 
which you all excel naturally. The chances 
are, that Gray will be able to do like the rest of 
you, without any very laborious effort or serious 
pain.” 

Mildred looked at her uncle with flashing 
eyes. 

“ Uncle Wallace, how dare you talk so to 
me ? ” she cried, vehemently. “ Oh ! I never 
knew before that you were so hard and cruel.” 

“ I am glad you have got some new light on 
such an interesting subject,” Mr. Oxford re- 
turned, coolly. 

“ I haven’t got any new light : it’s only the 
old light intensified. A new light would have 
shown you gentle, and tender, and human. 
But now. Uncle Wallace, I cannot understand, 
I hope I will never be able to understand, how 
•my mother’s brother, my grandmother’s only 
son, can be so hard and bitter.” 

“ Why do you hope you will never be able to 
understand?” Mr. Oxford asked, as he arose 
and stood before her. 

“Because,” Mildred answered, while her 
cheeks burned and her eyes blazed with excite- 
ment, “ because I am sure God never meant 
him to be so. Because I know he must have 
C 


34 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


been once not only loved, but loving ; not only 
truthful himself, but with faith in the truth of 
others. And I do not believe any trial or trou- 
ble in the world could have made him what he 
is — scornful and proud, and so cold-hearted that 
even an innocent, sorrowing child cannot touch 
him — if he had not himself hardened his own 
heart; if he had not ceased to pray; forgotten 
the prayers his mother taught him, and cast 
away the faith in which she brought him up. 
Oh ! Uncle Wallace, for the sake of the mother 
who was always kind to you, won’t you now be 
kind to an orphan child, who has no mother to 
love her ? ” 

A long silence followed Mildred’s passionate 
speech. With her face hidden in her hands she 
was crying bitterly, while, with a troubled 
countenance, Mr. Oxford stood looking drearily 
at her. 

Never, since he had first chosen to isolate 
himself from his fellow-men, had any one dared 
to speak to him as the young girl before him 
had just spoken. And she had spoken with 
his mother’s eyes ; nay, with his mother’s very 
soul looking through those eyes — her scorn 
of scorn ” and “ hate of hate ;” her faith in God, 
and love for all God’s children. 

The truth stung him. It stung him more 
that that girl, his sister’s child, should have seen 


PLEADING. 


35 


the littleness of his character, the meanness of 
his life. It was all true, all she had said. Self- 
convicted and humbled as he had not been in 
years, he waited before her. 

“ Mildred,” he said at last, in a changed, gen- 
tle voice, stop crying and listen to me : what 
do you — want me to do ? ” trembled on his lips. 
But just then the tempter whispered, an ugly 
suspicion crossed his mind, and — 

What do you expect to gain by this ? ” he 
asked instead. 

Gain ? With a sad, wondering face Mildred 
looked up at him. How was it possible for any 
personal gain to come to her from this busi- 
ness? No thought of such a thing had sug- 
gested itself to her, and as her uncle watched 
her he saw that it had not. But the same in- 
stant Mildred’s expression changed. 

“As ye have done it unto one of the least of 
these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me,” 
she repeated in a low, reverent tone. “ Uncle 
Wallace, I hope some day to gain the great joy 
of hearing those words said to you.” 

There was no doubt of her in Mr. Oxford’s 
heart now; no scornful words for her on his 
lips. 

“What would you like to have me do first 
for Gray?” he asked so kindly that Mildred 
scarcely knew his voice. 


36 


ON THE WAY HOME,, 


“ Love her first, Uncle Wallace,” she an^ 
swered, “ then everything else will come right.” 

Mr. Oxford looked at her with a sad smile. 

“ Mildred,” he said, “ many long years have 
passed since I have loved, or thought that I 
loved any one. My heart is like a house whose 
doors have been closed so long that the keys 
are lost, the locks rusted. If there is any good 
in me now, any power for loving or helping 
others, I hardly know it. I will do what I can 
to make little Gray happier; if there is any- 
thing in particular you think she needs, or 
should have done for her, I will willingly do it. 
More than this, Mildred, I cannot promise. 
No,” he repeated, passionately, “ I cannot 
promise. When a man has trusted as I once 
trusted, and been as cruelly deceived ; and when, 
for years, he has looked forth upon the world 
and seen in it only a great war of human pas- 
sions ; when he has seen self-interest sacrificing 
all that stood in its way, coolly crushing the 
holiest instincts of the soul for the sake of dol- 
lars and cents ; looked in vain for one man who 
made the law ofi his God the guide of his daily 
life; for one who, in his intercourse with his 
fellow-men, remembered always the rule, that 
like a sun makes bright the kingdom of Heaven : 
‘‘Whosoever will be chief among you, let him 
be your servant” — when he has studied men, 


PLEADING. 


37 


and proved them, and found them always ready 
to deceive, what faith can he have left in his 
soul? what confidence in the truth of men? 
what belief, either in God or humanity? what 
joy for this world? what hope for another?” 

Mr. Oxford paused in his rapid walk up and 
down the room, and stood before Mildred. 

Speak, Mildred,” he said. “You have 
called me hard and cruel to-night ; what cause 
have I to be anything else? what can I hope 
for? in what can I trust?” 

It was a trying moment for a girl of seven- 
teen, thus brought, for the first time in her young, 
sunny life, face to face with some of the fierce 
doubts and bitter questions that for ages have 
made the souls of men uneasy, as the troubled 
sea that cannot rest. 

“ I don’t know. Uncle Wallace,” she said, 
timidly, “ if it is as you say, but — ” and the 
girl’s face grew suddenly bright, with a truth 
that like a sunbeam chased away all shadows, 
“ but it isn’t, for there is always Christ.” 

“ Christ,” Mr. Oxford repeated, slowly; “yes, 
I know you think so, Mildred, apd I do not wish 
to disturb your happy faith ; but Christ has been 
for nearly two thousand years one of the powers 
contending for this world ; and tell me, if you 
can, what he has done, what he has gained ? I 
don’t mean outwardly — it is easy to point to 


38 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


churches and institutions — but inwardly, in the 
souls of men. How many men are there who, 
if their religion cost them anything, would not 
sacrifice it to-morrow ? Change it as readily as 
they would exchange a worn-out suit of clothing 
for a new one ? How many men who govern 
their daily lives by the teachings of their Bible, 
and who are really true disciples of the Master, 
whose first command is, that forsaking all that 
they have they shall follow him — how many? 
How many do you think, Mildred ? Tell me.” 

With clear, beautiful eyes, Mildred Hathaway 
looked up into her uncle’s troubled face. 

“ I don’t know,” she said again, with a child’s 
simplicity ; “ I don’t know. Uncle Wallace ; but 
you, at least, can be oneT 

Mildred’s truth-barbed arrow hit the mark. 
Mr. Oxford started ; but before he could speak, 
Susan came with the announcement that Rachel 
was waiting, and hurriedly rising, Mildred began 
to put on her wrappings. 

“Are you going without seeing Gray ? ” Mr. 
Oxford asked, as he watched her. 

“ She has a headache ; it isn’t best to disturb 
her to-night ; I will see her soon,” Mildred an- 
swered. “Uncle Wallace,” she added, as she 
came and stood by his side, “ I thank you very 
much for what you have promised for her, and 
will you please believe that I did not mean to 


PLEA DIN. 


39 


be presumptuous, or speak disrespectfully, and 
if I have done so, it was because — ” 

Because you could not help it,” Mr. Oxford 
said, gravely. “ Yes, Mildred, I not only for- 
give, but I thank you for your words to-night. 
If they were sharp, they were also true : and if, 
years ago, there had been some one brave and 
sincere enough to speak as plainly to me, I 
might have been a different and a better man 
to-night. But now — as well might the flowers 
of June hope to bloom in December, as for Wal- 
lace Oxford to hope to change the nature and 
the character his own self-will has made his.” 

The color rushed to Mildred’s face, and her 
lips trembled as if some thought was seeking 
expression, but no words came. 

What is it, Mildred ? ” her uncle asked. Do 
not be afraid ; what do you wish to say ? ” 

“ Nothing much,” she said, with slow hesita- 
tion ; “ only — don’t think me preaching. Uncle 
Wallace — but mamma told me once it was 
never too late for us to change, as long as we 
had power to pray, and Christ had power to 
help.” 

Mr. Oxford did not reply. Silently, when 
Mildred was ready, he walked with her to the 
door and left her in Rachel’s care ; and then, 
returning to the library, he paced, for a long 
time, up and down the room. 


40 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


For long years Wallace 'Oxford had been liv- 
ing in a state of fierce rebellion against his God, 
and of passionate hatred towards his fellow-men. 

He was not a skeptic. Try hard as he might 
to doubt and disbelieve the inspiration of his 
Bible, he never could overcome the solemn in- 
fluence of his mother’s teachings ; he never could 
forget the reverent faith with which she made 
the law of her God, the rule of her daily life. 

Still that mother’s Bible, with its tender coun- 
sellings, lay safely hidden in his desk ; treasured, 
though unread, through many weary years ; and 
he, a world-worn, weary man, hungry for comfort, 
yet knowing not where to seek it, waited there that 
evening lonely, friendless, hopeless. Why had 
he not followed in the path his mother trod be- 
fore him ? Why, believing in her Bible, had he 
so coldly and proudly closed its pages, and dis- 
regarded its warnings ? 

His own words to Mildred revealed why. Dis- 
appointed in his life, dissatisfied with himself, he 
had looked forth upon his fellow-men, not with 
loving, hopeful eyes that watched for angels ; 
but coldly and critically, with eyes that mag- 
nified every defect, and were quick to detect 
every deviation from right. 

There are two uses for a magnifying glass in 
this wonderful world of ours. Used in one way, 
we become aware of the speck in the fairest skin, 


PLEADING. 


41 


the flaw in the most brilliant diamond.. Used in 
the other, we see the exquisite down on the but- 
terfly’s wing, the flowers in the snow-flake and 
hoar-frost, and the stars that glorify the deepest 
vault of heaven. 

Wallace Oxford had spent his sight and strength 
hitherto in looking only for flaws and specks, and 
he had succeeded wonderfully well in finding them. 
The man who looks on the ground for worms 
will see plenty of them ; he who watches the 
sky for the passing of an angel’s wing will maybe 
never see one. And yet the angels are there, 
though it needs the glass through which the 
pilgrims looked on the Delectable mountains, 
to see and know them. 

Wallace Oxford had seen and classified all the 
worms; and when conscience, rousing some- 
times from the slumber in which he sought to 
keep her, would seek to make him see himself, 
his own faults, instead of his neighbor’s, his an- 
swer was always the same. To point with the 
blackened finger of prejudice to the erring, sin- 
ning men and women around him, and then 
draw the cloak of pharisaical pride closer about 
himself, and thank God he was not as other 
men ; professing with the lip, only to deny with 
the life. 

Granted even that there were no true Chris- 
tian men and women in the world : none who 

4 ’^ 


42 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Dared trust the Lord to make amends for duty done,” 

and who sought not their own, but the things 
of Christ ; still, if God’s law was true and bind- 
ing, that did not lessen his responsibility. He 
at least might be one. He saw it, felt it all. He 
saw himself in his true light at last, and the 
strong man quailed in agony — as we always do, 
when conscience in her hour of vengeance shows 
us ourselves, before mercy comes to veil the 
picture and reveal Christ. Much was possible 
for Wallace Oxford once, that now was possible 
no longer ; much that he might have done for 
others and for himself, must now remain forever 
undone. And realizing it all, in that hour of 
deep humiliation and bitter pain, the proud man 
groaned, too late — too late. 

Calming his anguish, hushing his hopeless 
moans, Mildred’s words came back to him. 

“ Never too late, as long as we have power to 
pray, and Christ has power to help.” 

He thought them over. Pray ? Yes, he was 
willing to pray now, but would it be any use ? 
Would not the King so often scorned and in- 
sulted, now spurn the suppliant from his throne? 
Would it not be a mockery to offer now the 
remnant of a life, whose best years had been 
wasted and thrown away ? 

With slow, uncertain step he went to his desk. 
He would see what the Bible said. With hands 


PLEADING. 


43 


that trembled in spite of his efforts to control 
them, he took from its case, the sacred volume, 
his mother’s last gift, and went back to his seat 
by the fire. 

Where should he open the book ? what did 
he hope to find? He could hardly answer. 
Something, if possible, that would solve his 
doubts and hush his fears. 

Mechanically he turned the book and opened 
it in Revelation. What were the words that 
caught his eye first, and seemed to him ever 
after, like stars piercing the blackest gloom of 
midnight skies. 

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock : if 
any man hear my voice, and open the door, I 
will come in to him, and will sup with him, and 
he with me.” 

Slowly, with dimming eyes, Wallace Oxford 
read the solemn promise. He could doubt no 
longer. The struggle had been sharp and fierce, 
but pride yielded completely at last. 

Reverently he closed the book, and folding 
his hands above it, said : 

“ It is enough. Lord. I hear thy voice. I 
open wide the door ; the door pride and rebellion 
have closed so long. Come in, thou blessed 
Saviour; thou Jesus who art to save thy people 
from their sins ; return unto thine own. Come 
in and take possession.” 


44 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


The stars of the late night, as they paled be- 
fore the first faint light of the early dawn, looked 
in on a humble, penitent man, sitting clothed 
and in his right' mind, at the feet of the Saviour 
of sinners. 



CHAPTER III. 


NEW BEGINNINGS. 

% 

*‘OId inbred habits will make resistance; but, by better 
habits they shall be entirely overcome .” — Thomas A Kempis. 

T he warm sun of a lovely February day was 
making the earth glad with its promise 
of an early spring, when Mr. Oxford entered 
his dining-room the next morning. 

How is Gray ? ” he asked of Susan, who was 
moving briskly about, engaged in preparations 
for his breakfast. The woman stared in aston- 
ishment at the unexpected question, but she an- 
swered gravely : 

She is much better this morning, sir.” 

“ Is she up ? ” 

Yes, sir.” 

“ Very well ; set the table for her, and tell her 
I want her to take breakfast with me this morn- 
ing. In fact, after this, she will always sit with 
me. 

“ Yes, sir.” And Susan went on with her 
work, wondering if the millennium was to begin, 

( 45 ) 


46 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


or — what seemed to her most probable — if Mr. 
Oxford was sick and about to die. He looked 
very well, however, as he stood in grave thought 
on the rug before the fire, and so, after watching 
him furtively for several moments, Susan de- 
cided — 

“ Wal ! strange things du hapin sumtimes,” 
she said to Peter, when she saw him in the 
kitchen. “ Here’s the marster^ lookin’ as pleas- 
ant as a purrin’ cat, and wantin’ Gray to eat 
breakfast with him. Ware is the child ? and 
wut’s goin’ tu hapin next du you s’pose, Peter?” 

Peter paused in his work of polishing Mr. 
Oxford’s boots, and brushed his hands through 
a thick mass of bushy red hair, as if in the vain 
hope of evolving from it some light that would 
enable him to understand Mr. Oxford’s strange 
behavior. Nothing came of the effort, how- 
ever, and in helpless amazement, he gazed at 
Susan. 

“ He ain’t ben tuk sick, nor had a shock, nor 
nothin’ in the night, has he ? ” he asked, im- 
pressed as Susan had been, with a vague fear 
that Mr. Oxford’s conduct was due to some 
serious mental or physical disorder. 

“ No ; not as I can see. He looks uncommon 
well this mornin’ ; jest as if he’d been takin’ a 
medicine that made him feel better and fresher 
than he has for ten years. I know he ain’t sick. 


JV£JV BEGINNINGS. 


47 


Peter, but what doos ail him I declare I dunno 
no more than the man in the moon.” 

‘‘ Wal, wal ! ” and Peter thrust his hands into 
his pockets, as if wisdom was buried there, like 
Hope in Pandora’s box ; thought a minute, and 
then said solemnly: 

“ I say, Susan ; ’taint no kin’ of use for you 
tu spec’late as tu the marster’s duin’s. There’s 
more things in heaven and airth than is dreamt 
of by eny woman, and no matter wut ails him, 
it’s my opinion he won’t be a bit less partikler 
about his breakfast. So you better call Gray, 
and look tu your coffee-pot, woman, and not 
trouble yourself ’bout matters you ain’t no sort 
of callin’ tu know anything about.” 

“ I s’pose you air right, Peter,” Susan said 
meekly, as she turned to search for Gray ; “ but 
when you see the Ethiopian changin’ his skin, 
I must say one wouldn’t be no sort of relation 
tu Eve if one didn’t want tu know how he dun 
it.” 

During Susan’s absence from the dining-room, 
Mr. Oxford remained standing in the same place 
before the fire ; and when the door at last 
opened, and Susan came in, followed by little 
Gray, he was conscious of feeling very much as 
a leviathan might, that had suddenly determined 
to be friendly with a sea-anemone. 

“ Come here,” he said kindly, as Gray came 


48 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


in, trying, with evident fear of what he might 
say or do, to keep her golden head hidden be- 
hind Susan’s protecting gown. “ Come here,” 
and he held out his hand ; “ how do you do, 
this morning ?” 

Very shyly the little hand was placed in his, 
and while the sweet eyes were veiled by the soft 
curls, a demure little voice said : 

“ I’m very well, thank you, sir.” 

Mr. Oxford looked at the child, then at the 
ceiling, and then out of the window, as if vainly 
seeking somewhere, some topic of conversation 
that would give them safe standing ground, and 
enable him to make Gray feel at home with him. 

“ Have you had your breakfast ? ” he asked, 
as a last resort. 

“ No, sir,” was all the trembling little mouth 
could say. 

“ Then I am sure you must be ready for it by 
this time. Did you ever pour coffee. Gray? 
How would you like to sit here, behind this urn, 
and pour my coffee for me ? ” 

No angler, manoeuvring for an unwilling trout, 
ever offered more tempting bait. Gray would 
not have been a flesh and blood woman, in minia- 
ture, if she had not been caught with the pro- 
posal to sit like a real grown lady at the head 
of the table. She was too shy to express her 
pleasure in words, but her color brightened, and 
eyes and lips smiled together. 


Ar£H^ BEGINNINGS. 


49 


Would you like it?” Mr. Oxford repeated. 

Come, then.” 

And to Susan’s astonishment, which by this 
time was no longer capable of increasing, his 
next move was to place Gray in her chair. 

As he took his own seat, there was a slight 
pause. For one instant he was tempted to give 
no outward sign, in words at least, of the change 
that had come over him. 

Only for an instant. “ Whoever knows and 
loves me, will confess me,” a tender voice 
seemed to whisper in his soul. And with the 
silent vow, “I will! I will!” Mr. Oxford bowed 
his head, and asked the Great Giver’s blessing 
on the food his bounty had bestowed. To 
little Gray his action seemed the most natural 
one in the world. To Susan, listening and gaz- 
ing with open eyes and ears, it was -a revelation 
so new and unexpected, that she began to won- 
der seriously if she were not dreaming, and to 
fear Mr. Oxford had suddenly gone crazy, or 
that she had herself Taking no notice of her, 
or her astonishment, however, Mr. Oxford ap- 
plied himself to his breakfast. It was a pleasant 
meal — the pleasantest he remembered in many 
years. He wondered at himself, and especially 
at the glad sense of comfort and possession he 
had when he looked at Gray. There was some- 
thing in the tiny figure sitting opposite him, 
5 D 


50 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


something in the sweet child-face, and gentle, 
winning ways, that touched and soothed him, 
and gave him a home-like feeling of repose and 
peace, such as he had never felt before, even in 
his own house. 

I have been a fool through all these dreary 
years,” he said, with bitter emphasis, to himself, 
as he left the table, “ but God helping m^, I will 
be a better man henceforth.” 

“ Susan,” he said, resolved that he would 
make no delay in doing what his conscience 
urged, “ Susan, after you have eaten your break- 
fast, I want to see Peter and you in the library.” 

It took but a few moments for Susan and her 
liege lord to swallow their breakfast and follow 
Mr. Oxford. 

“ I du believe he’s goin’ tu make his will, or 
du some other drefful thing,” Susan whispered 
to Peter as they walked toward the library. 

“ Humph ! ” Peter answered gruffly, “ I dare 
say he’ll tell you his will, Susan, if you don’t act 
like a sensible woman. Wut’s the use of gettin’ 
so excited? why can’t you be composed and 
quiet, jest as I be ? ” And in blissful ignorance 
of the fact that he looked as fully charged with 
curiosity and wonder as ever a telegraph-wire 
was with electricity, Peter opened the door. 

Mr. Oxford was sitting by his desk with his 
mother’s Bible in his hand. 


BEGINNINGS. 


51 


Come in, and be seated,” he said, as his ser- 
vants appeared ; “ there is something I want to 
say to you.” He waited a moment, and then 
went calmly on, “ You have lived with me many 
year5, and served me faithfully, both of you ; 
and I trust I have not been a bad master to you. 
But I am afraid, while doing our duty by each 
othe^ we' have all three forgotten the higher 
duty we owe to the great God who made us, 
and who has the first right to our services, the 
best claim upon our time and life. What has 
been in the past we cannot undo. We can only 
humbly resolve to-day, to serve him better here- 
after; to obey him, and be Christians, who, be- 
lieving in Christ, will confess and honor him 
before the world. That is what I have resolved ; 
and what I hope you, too, will resolve to be and do. 
And now, because we cannot follow Christ with- 
out first asking him to show us the way, I want 
you to join with me here in family prayer, 
morning and evening.” 

He said no more ; but when the sweet morn- 
ing service was over, and the servants had gone 
out, Mr. Oxford again took his Bible and 
searched its pages for counsel and direction. 

How can I live the life of a Christian? how 
can I sing the melodies of heaven, amid the 
discords of earth ? ” he asked, sadly, as he laid 
the book aside, and the old, old question. 


52 


ON THE WAV HOME, 


uttered by so many hearts and answered in so 
many ways, came unbidden to his lips : 

Lord, what wouldst Thou have me to do?” 

A gentle sigh seemed to answer him ; he 
started and looked around. Gray was standing 
by one of the windows, looking out into the 
street with a tired, sad look on her face. Mr. 
Oxford’s own face brightened as he saw her. 

“ I had forgotten her,” he said to himself, as 
he went to the window. “ My first duty is here. 
To take this child and do for her all that the 
Lord would have me ; and this, faithfully done, 
may prove the stepping-stone to something 
more.” 

“ Gray,” he said, laying his hand on her head, 
‘‘ are you tired of the house ? This is a pleasant 
morning, wouldn’t you like to take a walk with 
me?” 

A bright, glad look answered him. 

“ Run and get ready, then,” he said ; and, 
without waiting for a second bidding, the child 
ran off 

She had been gone but a few moments when 
he heard the door open. 

*‘What, ready so soon?” he asked, without 
looking up from ]^is book ; “ you are more like 
a bird than I thought you were.” 

But it was Susan’s voice, instead of Gray’s, 
that answered him. 


JV£PV BEGINNINGS. 


53 


If you please, Mr. Oxford,” she said, “ I’d 
like tu know wut Gray’s tu wear.” 

“ Wear ? ” Mr. Oxford stared at the woman 
as if she were speaking Hebrew. “Why, 
clothes, of course.” 

Susan smiled grimly. “Yes, sir, I sposed so, 
sense fig-leaves ain’t no longer the fashion, but 
wut kind of clothes?” 

“ Why, what she has,” Mr. Oxford answered. 
And then, a glimpse of the truth breaking on 
him, he hastened to say : “ What is the trouble, 
Susan ? Surely the child has clothes good 
enough to take a walk in.” 

Susan tossed her head, and pitched her nose 
several degrees higher in the air than usual. 

“ Depends on wut Mr. Oxford thinks good 
enough,” she said severely. “She has a little 
old black hat that looks as if it had been through 
more wars than the histry tells of, and a shawl 
that the ragman wouldn’t think wuth buyin’. 
She ain’t got any dresses either, that I’d want 
a child of mine tu wear, but if Mr. Oxford thinks 
they’re good enough, why I spose they air,” 
and Susan backed respectfully to the door. 

Mr. Oxford looked surprised and mortified. 

“ Stop,” he said, as Susan was going out. 
“ I did not know the child w^s so destitute, you 
should have told me. What has she worn when 
she has been out with Miss Mildred?” 

5 


64 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ Her old clothes, sir. Miss Mildred said if 
she hadn’t any good clothes, why poor ones was 
better than none.” 

Mr. Oxford smiled a little at Mildred’s make- 
the-best-of-everything philosophy; but Susan 
went gravely on. 

I didn’t tell you before, sir, because I didn’t 
know wut you wanted me tu du. But now, 
when it comes tu the child’s walkin’ out with 
you, I thought I ought tu speak ; for, indeed, 
sir, she don’t look no better than a little walk- 
ing rag-bag.” 

“ No matter, the want of clothes can fortun- 
ately soon be supplied,” Mr. Oxford said, in- 
differently. Make her look as well as you can, 
and send her along as soon as possible, for we 
will have more to do this morning than I at first 
supposed.” 

“ I will send for Mildred, and we will go shop- 
ping,” he decided as Susan went out. But now 
a new difficulty occurred to him. 

It was Friday, and Mildred would be busy 
with lessons and teachers. He had no right, he 
felt, to interfere with her studies, and at the 
same time he did not like to take the child 
shopping alone. “ I might be able to tell silk 
from calico,” he soliloquized ; “ but that is about 
the extent of my knowledge concerning the 
mysteries of a feminine wardrobe. Well, an 


JVEPV BEGINNINGS. 


55 


ordinary day is only twenty-four hours long. 
Gray can surely exist without new dresses for 
that length of time, and we will have our walk 
now, and to-morrow Mildred and the new 
clothes.” 

It was a kind resolve, but Mr. Oxford hesi- 
tated a little to act upon it when Gray, ready for 
her walk, appeared before him. Even his un- 
observant, usually indifferent eyes, saw at once 
how unlike her dress was to that of other chil- 
dren of her age. 

An odd, little shawl, that looked like a faded 
rainbow, was pinned closely around her in front, 
and tied in a knot at her back. The pretty 
golden curls were all drawn back from her face, 
and confined in one tight braid tied. with a black 
ribbon. Susan declaring, as she did it, “ that 
she couldn’t abide flyaway hair nohow, it always 
made her think of ragged kite-tails ; and if she 
couldn’t make Gray look pretty, she should at 
least look neat.” Crowning the prim golden 
head, was a little old bent hat, without beauty 
or fashion, that the sweet face looked out from 
like a beautiful flower in a broken, ugly vase. 

She formed a striking contrast to the elegant 
gentleman waiting for her, and Mr. Oxford fully 
realized it. 

“ I have been worse than a brute to neglect 
her so long,” he thought regretfully, “ but I will 


56 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


make amends now ; ” and taking her hand they 
started. It was a beautiful morning for a walk, 
a fact that the world at large appeared to fully 
appreciate. And as Mr. Oxford walked along, 
with his little companion’s hand clasped in his, 
many curious and amused glances fell on them. 

But Gray was happily too young and inno- 
cent to be self-conscious. And Mr. Oxford was 
politely oblivious to everything he did not wish 
to see or hear ; and cared as little for the smiles 
and comments of the passing crowd, as he did 
for the snow-storm, that might possibly be raging 
just then in Nova Zembla. With a sunshine in his 
heart, that reflected itself in his face, and bright- 
ened his whole aspect, he led Gray along, and 
watched her interest in the scenes around them. 

They had walked some distance, when a 
pretty little girl, apparently just Gray’s age, met 
them, carrying proudly in her arms a large, 
beautifully dressed doll. Gray’s eyes were fas- 
cinated. No word, save a long drawn out “ Oh ! 
escaped her ; but with her soul in her face, she 
watched the proud little lady and her wonderful 
treasure ; and when they had passed, the golden 
head turned, and the bright eyes gazed wish- 
fully after them, until they were out of sight. 

Mr. Oxford saw it all ; and wondered at him- 
self that he was capable of taking so much in- 
terest in such a childish thing. 


JV£PV BEGINNINGS. 


57 


What is it, Gray ? ” he asked kindly, as he 
heard her sigh. 

“ Nothing ; nothing much, sir,” the little voice 
answered him. 

“Are you sure it’s nothing much. Gray? That 
was a very deep sigh to be caused by nothing. 
What did you think of that fine doll that just 
passed us?” 

“ It was very pretty,” Gray said in a quiet, 
subdued voice. 

“ Wouldn’t you like one just like it for your- 
self, Gray ? ” 

Wouldn’t she? There was a heart full of 
longing, mingled with hope and fear in the 
child’s face, as for an instant she raised her eyes 
to his. She was too shy, and, in spite of his 
present kindness, still too much afraid of him to 
answer in words, and without waiting for her to 
do so, Mr. Oxford said : 

“ I dare say we can find one just as pretty if 
we look for it. Suppose we go in here, and see 
what we can do ? ” he added, as they came to a 
large toy bazaar. 

What a wonderful fairy-land that store seemed 
to Gray. Her eager eyes took quick, glad note 
of every pretty thing, and she almost forgot 
their errand in the simple pleasure of looking, 
and quite forgot her shyness. 

“ Please, sir,” she said, looking brightly up 


58 ON THE WA Y HOME. 

into Mr. Oxford’s face, “ isn’t this where Santa 
Claus comes to fill his sleigh at Christmas ? ” 

“ I don’t know, Gray. Perhaps so. Santa 
Claus passed you by this Christmas, didn’t he ? 
It was very rude in him, but we must do what 
we can now to make amends.” And turning to 
one of the store girls, Mr. Oxford asked to see 
some dolls. 

“ What kind of dolls?” she asked pertly, look- 
ing at Gray, with an expression of scornful 
amusement she took no pains to conceal ; “ some- 
thing cheap ? ” 

“ Show me the handsomest dolls you have in 
the store,” Mr. Oxford replied haughtily. “When 
I wish to know the price I’ll ask it.” 

Silently, with a toss of her wonderfully puffed 
and frizzled head, the girl proceeded to comply 
with his demand. 

Doll after doll, beautiful in color, and models 
of elegance in dress, she showed them. And 
Gray looked and wondered, and, like many an- 
other admirer of beauty, found it quite impos- 
sible to decide between blondes and brunettes, 
raven braids and golden curls, pink robes and 
blue ones. 

“ Now, Gray,” Mr. Oxford said, when the 
counter was pretty well covered, “ make a selec- 
tion; you may have whichever one you like 
best.” 


JV£fV BEGINNINGS. 


69 


Slowly and carefully Gray looked them all 
over again in loving review, and ended by 
clasping in her arms a lovely crying-baby, in 
dainty, long white robes, and delicate lace-frilled 
cap. 

Mr. Oxford watched her with much amuse- 
ment. “ Why, you don’t mean that you prefer 
that to all these fine, elegant ladies ? ” he asked, 
with a well-feigned expression of great surprise. 

Once more Gray’s eyes roved over the assem- 
blage of waxen beauties, and then came back 
with great content to her own choice. 

“This will grow; the others have all got 
through,” she said composedly. And with a 
smile, Mr. Oxford turned to pay for the doll. 

“ Wouldn’t she like a cradle for it ?” asked the 
vain and thoughtless, but really kind-hearted 
young store girl ; not from a selfish desire to 
sell her wares, but simply because she had be- 
come interested in the child’s pleasure, and felt 
a desire to increase it. 

“A cradle ? ” Mr. Oxford looked at Gray and 
needed to ask no questions. 

“ Let us see the cradles, then,” he said ; and 
once more Gray’s eyes and thoughts found full 
employment. 

A willow cradle, with blue silk curtains and 
spread, was selected at last, and Mr. Oxford paid 
for them, and ordered them sent home. 


60 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Here, Gray,” he said, as he received his 
change, “ I think this money rightfully belongs 
to you ; ” and placing it in a pretty little red 
pocket-book, he gave it to her. It was well 
that, in the satisfaction it gave him, to find him- 
self susceptible of pleasure in witnessing the plea- 
sure of another, he did not try to increase Gray’s 
happiness by adding to her new possessions. 

The child’s heart was flowing over with joy ; 
full of excitement and interest, she watched her 
treasures as they were placed in the cash-girl’s 
basket and sent to be packed ; and then, with a 
smile, she put her hand in Mr. Oxford’s, and 
whispered softly, “ Thank you, sir.” 

Three very simple words ; but they seemed 
to the lonely man the sweetest he had heard in 
many long days ; and he silently resolved to 
find frequent opportunities for hearing them in 
the future. 

“ We will go home now,” he said, as they left 
the store. And well content, Gray turned with 
him in that direction. They were almost home, 
when she caught sight of a sickly-looking, thinly- 
dressed little girl, crouching at the corner of the 
street. Mr. Oxford did not notice her, but Gray 
suddenly drew her hand from his and stopped. 

“Oh, sir; I am so sorry for her. May I? 
may I ? ” she said eagerly, as in great surprise 
Mr. Oxford looked down at her. 


JV£PV BEGINNINGS. 


61 


“ May you what ? ” he questioned. “ What is 
the matter, Gray ? what do you want ? ” 

Quickly Gray opened her pocket-book and 
took out the money. 

“ May I give this to that poor little girl ? ” she 
asked, pointing toward the crouching child. 

Mr. Oxford glanced in the direction of her 
finger. “ No, no,” he said ; “ this is all non- 
sense, Gray. She’s only a little beggar, without 
doubt an impostor. Keep your money to buy 
something for yourself. Come.” 

But Gray stood still. 

“ I don’t want to buy anything for myself,” 
she said passionately. “ I’m so sorry for her. 
Can’t I give it to her?” she urged, looking up 
at Mr. Oxford with tearful eyes. 

That gentleman was seriously annoyed. 

“ Yes, if you must,” he said, in a tone of dis- 
pleasure ; “ but be quick, and don’t let me have 
any scene here in the street.” 

Gray hardly heard him. At his first word 
she had darted to the girl, and gladly poured 
her money into her hand. 

The girl’s face did look miserably sick and 
thin ; even Mr. Oxford, who had followed Gray, 
and now stood by her side, was forced to ac- 
knowledge that. An impostor she might be, 
but she was certainly a very wretched impostor; 
and as Gray asked pityingly : 

6 


62 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


What’s the matter with you ? why don’t you 
stand?” he listened with curious interest to 
her answer. 

It hurts me ; I’m lame. I’ve been sick got 
the rheumatiz.” 

“Then why don’t you stay home?” 

“Ain’t got no home,” the girl said sadly. 

Mr. Oxford’s lip curled. “ The old story,” he 
said to himself; and then aloud: 

“ Come, Gray ; we must go now ” 

But still little Gray lingered. 

“ Please, sir, if she’s sick, won’t you help 
her ? ” she asked, winningly. 

Mr. Oxford hesitated. He did not believe a 
word the girl said ; but he knew Gray did. And 
notwithstanding his own unbelief, he could not 
help admiring her childish faith. Turning to the 
girl he asked, coldly. 

“ Where do you liVe ? ” 

“ Most nights I stays down in Frost lane with 
Aunt Patty,” she answered, in a dull, dry man- 
ner. 

“ Where are your parents ? ” 

“ Dunno ; never heard nothin’ ’bout ’em.” 

“ Have you been sick long ? who took care 
of you ? ” 

“ Been sick most all winter. Worst times, 
Aunt Patty took care of me; now I does for 
meself.” 


JVEPV BEGINNINGS. 


63 


“ How did you get here ? and how do you 
get home at night ? ” Mr. Oxford asked, suspi- 
ciously. 

“ I limps,” the girl said ; showing at the same 
time a stout, rough sort of crutch. 

“ Do you suffer much ? do you have much 
pain ? ” 

“ Dun have nothin’ else.” 

Mr. Oxford felt for his pocket-book. He was 
inclined to give the girl money and then dismiss 
her from his thoughts. Pitiable she certainly 
was; but the world was full of just such objects; 
he couldn’t reach them all, even if he wished to 
da so. And he had not yet drank so deeply of 
his Master’s spirit, as to see his neighbor in 
every suffering fellow mortal. But Gray, who 
had been a silent, but interested listener, stopped 
him. 

“ I might have been just like her,” she said, 
with her eyes full of tears. 

Mr. Oxford looked at her. “ I don’t see any 
resemblance,” he said, dryly;” “how do you 
mean. Gray ? ” 

“ She hasn’t any father, nor mother, and she 
hasn’t any home ; there isn’t any one to take 
care of her,” Gray said, earnestly. “ Mr. Ox- 
ford,” she added, calling him for the first time 
by his* name, “ I’ll give you back my new doll 
and cradle.” 


64 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


“ What good will that do ? ” he asked, as Gray 
stopped and looked at him. 

She hesitated, half-afraid to speak, then glanced 
at the poor girl and found courage. 

“ Won’t they give you back the money for 
them ? ” 

“ Perhaps ; what then ? ” 

Gray’s cheeks flushed, and the words came 
with difficulty. 

“ Then, sir, won’t you help this poor girl to 
find a better home ? ” 

If I’m to find homes for all the poor little 
girls in the city, I shall have enough to do,” he 
said, coldly. 

With a child’s literalness, Gray looked around. 
“ There isn’t any other little girl here now,” she 
said quickly, “ and she’s only one.” 

‘'And you are another. And it’s time you 
went home, we can’t stand talking here in the 
street all day,” Mr. Oxford answered, rather 
sternly. 

Gray’s lips trembled : she looked again at the 
girl " She’s sick, and I’m well,” she said, ear- 
nestly, as she looked up into Mr. Oxford’s cold 
face. “ Please, sir, will you take her home with 
you, and let me stay here ? ” 

Mr. Oxford was truly astonished now. 

“ You don’t mean that. Gray; you don’t want 
to stay here ? ” 


BEGINNINGS. 


65 


“ No ; but you can’t take care of but one little 
girl, and she’s sick, and poor, and hasn’t anyone 
to take care of her.” 

“Well, you’d be poor, and sick too, perhaps, 
if I left you here; and then who would take 
care of you ? ” 

Gray’s face grew very sober. 

“ I don’t know,” she said ; but I think God 
would.” 

“ I think he would, too,” Mr. Oxford said, 
taking her hand, much as if he was afraid of 
losing her. “ He has given you to me, and he 
expects me to take care of you now, and I mean 
to do so. Come, we must go home now, but 
after dinner I’ll come again and see what I can 
do for this poor girl.” 

“ Will you stay here until I come back ? ” he 
asked, turning to her. 

She nodded. 

“ If you are here, and I find you have told me 
the truth. I’ll take you to a better home than you 
have now.^’ 

The girl looked at him suspiciously. “ I 
won’t go to no ’sylums nor refuges,” she said, 
in a defiant voice. 

“And I won’t take you to any,” he said, 
coldly. 

“ If you want me to help you, stay here ; if 
you don’t want help, why go away.” And 

Q* E 


66 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


without waiting for her to answer, he walked 
on. 

It was late in the afternoon when, true to his 
promise, Mr. Oxford returned to find the girl. 

Much to his surprise she was still there, 
crouching in her old place. Her dull eyes 
brightened a little as she saw him, but she was 
too tired and wretched to care much for his 
coming, or indeed for anything. 

“ I have come back, you see,” he said ; now 
tell me your name.” 

“ Barbara Munch.” 

“ Well, Barbara, I am going to get a cab and 
take you with me to where you say you live, 
will you go ? ” 

^^Yes,” she said, indifferently. 

In a few minutes the cab was neady, and as he 
helped, and in fact lifted the girl into it, he was 
satisfied that there was no deception in her plea 
of sickness. 

It was in one of the poorest parts of the city 
that she said she lived, and when they arrived 
there and found Aunt Patty, Mr. Oxford learned 
to his great surprise, that the girl had told him 
the simple truth. 

She was an orphan. One of the poor, stray 
waifs on the sea of humanity, for whom nobody 
took care or thought. No one knew anything 
about her history, and if she had ever had a 


N£PV BEGINNINGS. 


67 


home and friends, she retained no recollection 
of them. One dreary winter day, two years 
before, she had drifted with the snow-flakes into 
Aunt Patty’s hovel, and with the warm-hearted- 
ness of her race, the poor Irish woman had con- 
tinued to give her shelter. She had been very 
sick with inflammatory rheumatism for several 
weeks, and when she grew better, she dragged 
herself out, and resorted to 'begging; 

“ For indade, sir, an’ its leetle enough the 
loikes of me can do, to git bread fer me own 
young ones, an’ when it comes to the loikes of 
her, why shure the good Lord made her, an’ his 
world owes her a livin’,” Aunt Patty said, as if 
defending herself against an accusation of cruelty 
in sending out the crippled girl. 

*‘You have done what you could; I don’t 
blame you,” Mr. Oxford said. “ But now, as 
there is no one else to look after the girl, I will 
try to do my part of the world’s work, and look 
after her myself.” 

“ What are you going to do with me ? ” Bar- 
bara asked in a voice that was a curious mixture 
of interest and indifference. “ Can I see that 
pretty little girl again ? ” 

Mr. Oxford was conscious of being very un- 
willing to answer yes. “ Perhaps so, some day, 
if you are a good girl,” he said ; “ but I am go- 
ing to take you now, Barbara, to a comfortable 


68 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


home, where you will have kind care, and good 
doctors and nurses, and I hope, soon get well. 
Are you willing to go ? 

“ I dunno. Yes, I suppose so. Guess it don’t 
much matter,” poor Barbara answered, wearily. 
She roused up and seemed more interested, how- 
ever, when the carriage stopped, and she was 
taken into the children’s ward of the city hos- 
pital. 

What a large, beautiful room it was ; and how 
tempting the clean, neat beds looked to the sick 
child : how pleasant and gentle seemed the face 
and touch of the kind nurse who came to attend 
to her. 

“ Will you stay here, Barbara ? ” Mr. Oxford 
asked as, after making all the necessary arrange- 
ments, he came to speak to her. 

She gave him a sad, tired smile, the first he 
had seen on her face, and answered, with some 
doubt : 

“ If they’ll keep me.” 

“ No fear about that,” he said, cheerfully. 
“ They’ll keep you and take good care of you ; 
and when you get strong and well we’ll see 
what shall be done next.” 

She did not thank him. Probably in her sad 
life she had had little cause for thankfulness, 
and never learned to express the little she might 
feel. But her look was like that of some hunted 


njsiv beginnings. 


69 


rescued animal, and through her eyes a dumb 
soul seemed piteously seeking expression. 

“ The little girl,” she said again, as Mr. Ox- 
ford was leaving, “ please, can I see the little 
girl?” 

He could not deny her. “Yes,” he said, “if 
you are good I’ll bring her soon.” And, satis- 
fied with his promise, she watched him go, and 
then yielded herself unresistingly to the care of 
her nurse. 

Twilight was gathering when Mr. Oxford 
reached his own home. He was tired and sad, 
and it was with a thrill of secret satisfaction that 
he remembered the little girl who was sheltered 
in his house, and had none to dispute his right 
to her. Softly he opened the library door and 
looked around. The fire was blazing brightly, 
and with its red light the whole room was illu- 
minated. The new doll had come home and, 
with it clasped in her arms, Gray lay upon 
the soft rug before the hearth, lost in the 
delicious luxury of a child’s pure, untrpubled 
sleep. 

Mr. Oxford’s eyes grew dim as he stood and 
watched her. “ My own little girl,” he whis- 
pered presently, as she slightly moved ; and, 
stooping, he raised her gently in his arms and 
carried her to the sofa. 

With a tenderness, strange even to himself. 


70 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


he laid her down, and whispered as he bent 
over her : 

God bless and keep thee, my innocent child, 
and give me grace to be to thee all the father, 
who has left thee, wished.” 



CHAPTER IV. 


SHOPPINQ, 

All common things, each day’s events 
That with the day begin and end, 

Our pleasures and our discontents. 

Are rounds by which we may ascend.” — 

Longfellow. 

T he next morning, while Mildred and her 
brother were at breakfast, a note was 
handed her. 

My Dear Mildred : 

Having, through your kind agency, learned that I possess a 
flawless diamond, I am now, as a natural consequence, very 
anxious to have it properly polished and set. 

As I do not like to trust to my own uninstructed taste, will 
you go with us — Gray and myself — on an expedition, that,, 
beloved as it is by every feminine nature, and as cordially de- 
tested by every masculine one, will remain, in spite of the 
logicians, as long as there are stores to visit and new clothes to 
buy, an unanswerable argument in favor of the difference be- 
tween woman’s mind and man’s. 

Believing that you are Chaldean enough to read my riddle, 
and hoping the proposed expedition will afford you as much 
pleasure in anticipation as it does me misery — to wish you more 
would be an unnecessary waste of generosity — 

I remain your faithful uncle, 

Wallace Oxford. 

( 71 ) 


72 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Mildred’s face, at first knotted in bewilder- 
ment, and then brightening into a happy smile, 
interested Robert as he watched her reading. 

'‘Well, Mildred, from what quarter is the 
wind to blow to-day?” he asked, as she folded 
her note. 

" Why don’t you ask in what direction it’s 
going to blow me?” she returned, with a laugh. 
" I’m going shopping, Robert, with Uncle Wal- 
lace and little Gray ; now, what do you say to 
that?” 

“ Say ? I’ve no power to say anything, I’m 
paralyzed with astonishment. What’s come 
over our amiable uncle ? and what is he going 
to buy ? a strait-jacket ? ” 

Mildred laughed, and then tried to look 
serious. 

" I shan’t answer your questions until you ask 
properly, Robert,” she said, with great dignity. 
“ In speaking so of Uncle Wallace, you are very 
disrespectful.” 

Robert looked at his sister with merry eyes. 
" Dignity is very becoming to your style of 
beauty, Mildred,” he said, teasingly. 

Mildred’s bright face grew very grave. 
" Robert,” she said, “ I haven’t told you before, 
but I went to see Uncle Wallace on Thursday 
evening after my talk with you.” 

“ Bearded the lion in his den, did you ? well, 
did you tame him ?” 


SHOPPING. 


73 


“ I had a long talk with him,” Mildred said^ 
gravely ; ” I am afraid I said a great many im- 
pertinent things, but he was very kind and for- 
giving. He promised to treat Gray better, and 
I am sure he means to do so. And — Robert, I 
cannot tell you all he said • but I know he has 
suffered and been very unhappy, and I believe 
he is going to change now, and be a better 
man.” 

Not one word did Robert Hathaway say for 
several minutes. Then, as he arose from the 
table, he went round to his sister and kissed her. 

“You are a brave little girl, Mildred,” he 
said, “and I’ll never speak disrespectfully of 
Uncle Wallace again until — you give me leave,” 
he added, in a lighter tone. 

Mildred looked pleased. “ Will you go with 
me some time to see him ?” she asked. 

“ Why don’t you ask me to offer myself for a 
target mark to the rifle-shooters?” he said, 
laughingly. “Standing up to be shot at that 
way would be enjoyable, compared to exposing 
myself to the fire of Uncle Wallace’s eyes and 
tongue. But, by the way, when am I to see this 
wonderful little paragon of yours, Mildred? 
Why don’t you bring her here and let me pass 
my judgment upon her?” 

“ I hope she will come soon ; but she is such 
a little girl, Robert, and — ” 


7 


74 


ON THE WAY HOME, 


''And you don’t think my judgment of little 
girls as good as it is of large ones?” he inter- 
rupted. 

Mildred laughed. "I didn’t suppose you’d 
care to see her, Robert, and besides — promise 
me you won’t tease her when she does come,” 
she said, in a different tone. 

" Not for world’s ; I’ll be as respectful as if she 
were a princess from the Chinaman’s Celestial 
Empire. Only I hope she hasn’t feet like a 
Celestial Empire princess, has she ? ” 

" She’s very pretty,” Mildred said, " and I’ve 
never thought about her feet.” 

” There spoke a true girl,” Robert said, 
with a laugh. "Well, a pleasant day to you, 
sister.” 

With a light step, and a lighter heart, Mil- 
dred hastened to her room. 

" I am going shopping with Uncle Wallace,” 
she explained, when in a few moments Rachel 
came in, much surprised to find her dressing. 

Even Rachel, usually so sedate and staid, 
could not conceal her astonishment. 

"His onything happun’d till Mr. Oxford?” 
she asked. 

"Happened? I don’t know. But — yes — Ido 
believe there has. Rachel, is it possible, for any 
one, especially for a strong, proud man, to turn 
around in a day, and become a Christian? Can 


SHOPPING. 


75 


we change from hating all the world, to loving 
God and our neighbor as quickly as that?” 

*‘The Lord’s han’ is na shortened ’at it canna 
save,” Rachel answered seriously. Miss Mil- 
dred oor Father in h’aven has mony different 
ways in whilk till wark an’ bring herts till him- 
sel’. Sometimes he watches ower a soul, jist as 
ye dee ower yer favorite rose ; giein’ it ilka day 
mair licht an’ air, till at last, unconsciously an* 
naturally as the bud bursts in till the flower, the 
soul ripens in till the bloom an’ glaidness o’ the 
Christian life. Wi’ ithers. Miss Mildred, it’s as 
it was wi’ St. Paul in his shipwreck. For mony 
days the sun an’ stars are darkened, an’ nae sma’ 
tempest seems upon them ; an’ then, jist whan all 
hope that they shall be saved is taen awa’, he 
wull lat the morning licht brak upon them, an’ 
bring them safe till the shore. He does na count 
time as we dee. Miss Mildred, an’ sae I doot na 
but it is possible to turn in a day, or even in an 
hoor, an’ wi’ auld things passed awa’, to see all 
things become new.” 

“ I am glad you think so,” Mildred said 
thoughtfully; “for Uncle Wallace seemed differ- 
ent that night, and he seems different in the way 
he writes now. And I cannot help thinking he 
is changed. But it must be hard, after so many 
years, to turn around and begin a new life.” 

“ Yes ; the steps are hard for warl- weary men 


76 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


to climb. But, Miss Mildred, dear, the Lord 
Stan’s aboon them, an’ his han’ is stretched doon 
to help; that makes all things easier, doesn’t it? ” 

I have not told you much about Rachel Gor- 
don yet — the true, earnest-hearted, faithful 
Scotch woman, who had been for years Mrs. 
Hathaway’s trusted housekeeper, friend and ad- 
viser, and in whose charge, when failing health 
sent her from home, she could fearlessly leave 
her young daughter, and all her household in- 
terests. Perhaps, after all, there is not much 
about her to be told. Hers was one of the 
unwritten histories that only God and his angels 
record. 

Long before this story opens Rachel had 
known life’s deepest joys and shed life’s bitter- 
est tears. Now in quiet contentment, and glad 
dependence on her heavenly Father’s care, she 
was doing the work he sent her : 

“ Content to fill a lowly place 
So He were glorified.” 

But perhaps we shall some day learn that, as 
in nature, the most blissful, potent influences are 
those that are noiseless and little heeded, so it is 
not always of the life that is spent in labors of 
which the world takes admiring notice, that the 
recording angel writes ^‘well done.” 

Mildred was hardly ready when Mr. Oxford’s 


SHOPPING. 


77 


carriage came for her ; and when she appeared 
little Gray greeted her with a kiss as full of joy 
as a bird’s song. 

“ Oh, Miss Mildred; I’m so glad to see you,” 
she said excitedly. “ Isn’t this a pretty day ? 
And I’m going with you ; Mr. Oxford told me 
so. Going to buy some new dresses ; and oh ! 
I’m so happy I don’t know what to do.” 

Fortunately, Mildred was yet enough of a 
child to be able to sympathize fully with the 
little girl ; and before they stopped for Mr. Ox- 
ford she had heard all about the wonderful new 
doll and its cradle, and the poor sick girl, and 
her uncle’s kindness, and all the changes that one 
short day had wrought in Gray’s life. 

It seemed even to Mildred more like a chap- 
ter in a story-book than a bit of real life. And 
her wonder increased when Mr. Oxford joined 
them. For though his welcome was undemon- 
strative as usual, it was still touched with a 
grace and kindness she never remembered in 
him before. It seemed very strange to have him 
so considerate of her own comfort, and so gentle 
to the little girl beside her, who, though still 
rather shy, was fast losing her fear, and begin- 
ning, with the quickly-won confidence of child- 
hood, to cling to him. What did it mean? How 
had it all come to pass ? 

Mildred could not help watching her uncle 
7 * 


78 


ON. THE WA y HOME. 


closely ; and neither could she help expressing 
in her face the wonder she was feeling. And 
Mr. Oxford, who for so many years had been 
such a close student of human nature, would 
have proved himself but a poor student after all, 
if he had not seen and understood her amaze- 
ment. He had not meant to say it, and how he 
came to do 'so he could never tell, but as the 
fur robe slipped down from Mildred’s lap, 
and he bent forward to replace it, he met her 
eyes. 

“ Mildred,” he said, “ is anything too hard for 
the Lord?” 

“ No,” she answered, breathlessly, “ oh, no.” 

“ Then, dear, if with David I say, ‘ He 
brought’ me ‘out of darkness and the shadow of 
death, and brake’ my ‘bands in sunder,’ can you 
not believe that he has done it, and, with me, 
thank him for his goodness?” 

Mildred’s eyes were full of tears. “ Oh ! 
Uncle Wallace, I am so glad, so very glad,” she 
began, and then stopped. 

“ So am I,” he said, with a smile that was in 
truth full of gladness ; “ we will talk of this 
again, perhaps, in some future time. Now,” 
with a sudden change of tone, “ Mildred, do you 
know much about shopping?” 

It was like leaping a cataract for Mildred’s 
thoughts to follow him in his quick transition 


SHOPPING. 


79 


from one subject to another so unlike it ; never- 
theless they accomplished the feat. 

“ Not much,” she answered, “ but I have been 
often with mamma.” 

“ Do you know enough to take this little girl 
and fit her out with everything she needs for 
comfort, from the crown of her head to the tip 
of her toe?” he asked, with a smile. 

Mildred looked at Gray. She still wore the 
quaint garb of yesterday, and the sunny hair 
was still rigidly drawn back and braided. 

“ Oh ! I shall love to do it,” she said, with the 
confidence of a happy girl. “ It will be as pretty 
as dressing a doll ; I shall curl her hair, too,” 
she added, with quick decision. 

Mr. Oxford smiled. “ I’ve no objections,” he 
said. 

“What kind of clothes is Gray to have?” 
Mildred asked, after a pause, in which she had 
rapidly considered possibilities and probabili- 
ties. 

Mr. Oxford hesitated. “ I know nothing 
about fashions, and care less,” he said. “ But I 
want Gray dressed as my — ” he stopped a sec- 
ond. “ Mildred,” he said soon, “ I wish you to 
select for her, both in quantity and quality, such 
clothes as you think your mother would for you 
if you were a little girl just her age.” 

“ Oh ! I know now,” Mildred said, joyously. 


80 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Tell the coachman to take us to the children’s 
bazaar, will you, Uncle Wallace?” And, full 
of business, the girl took out note-book and 
pencil. 

“ She’ll want — she’ll want,” she said, at inter- 
vals, while, with her pencil pressed to lip, she 
considered Gray’s necessities. 

“ Uncle Wallace,” she asked presently, with a 
pretty smile and blush, “ am I to spend as much 
money as I like to-day?” 

Mr. Oxford laughed. “You extravagant 
gypsy,” he said, with a playfulness she had 
never seen in him before, “ how much would 
that be ?” 

“ I don’t know, but I imagine a good deal, 
because,” and Mildred grew very sober, “You 
see. Uncle Wallace, I can’t help wanting to get 
the prettiest things, and then I am not experi- 
enced in shopping, and I’m afraid I won’t under- 
stand bargaining, and making a little money get 
a great deal, as I’ve heard ladies talk about 
doing.” 

“ I will not ask you to do that, Mildred,” Mr. 
Oxford said, as he took out his .pocket-book. 
“ I want you to get good and suitable articles ; 
the best and prettiest, if you please, and doing 
that, of course you must pay accordingly. I 
believe it is considered a great art in shopping — 
though I trust it is an art you will never try to 


SHOPPING. 


81 


excel in — to get things for much less than their 
true value. I have looked on sometimes, and 
seen ladies haggling and bargaining with mer- 
chants, and trying to get the better of them — it 
just amounted to that — until I could have 
blushed for them, because they hadn’t the grace 
to blush for themselves. It is a meanness that 
amounts almost to thieving, Mildred ; don’t ever 
be guilty of it. Deal with honorable, reliable 
merchants. Do them the simple justice to be- 
lieve they know the value of their wares; and be 
just enough to yourself, to know what you can 
and cannot afford. Then, my dear, if you want 
an article, that it is right you should have, and 
that comes within your means, buy it. If it ex- 
ceeds your means, be womanly and true enough 
to resign it without trying, by beating down the 
merchant, to obtain it for less than its real worth. 
Have you your pocket-book with you ?” 

Yes, certainly;” and Mildred produced it. 

With a smile, Mr. Oxford opened and filled 
it. 

That will do to begin with,” he said, as he 
gave it back. 

“I shall leave you and Gray alone for an 
hour or two. I have some business to attend 
to, and I suppose you can do without my pres- 
ence for awhile. I’ll join you by the time you 
are ready to discuss hats and cloaks.” And 


82 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


with a pleasant “ Good-morning ” Mr. Oxford 
stopped the carriage and left them. 

For the next few hours Mildred and her little 
charge had a lovely time. It did not matter if 
Gray was oddly dressed and looked, as Mildred, 
in describing the day to her mother, wrote, “ like 
a queer little picture, that had just been cut out 
of Methuselah’s fashion-book.” Mildred, with 
her pretty dress and well-filled pocket-book, 
and, better still, with the indescribable, but un- 
mistakable look in face and manner that marked 
her as a true lady, was sure to receive attention. 
And entering with all the interest and enthusi- 
asm of her nature into her work, she made a 
beautiful play of what to many would have been 
only a vexatious labor. Her own taste was sim- 
ple. She had many an old instruction of her 
mother’s to guide her, and rejecting, with an un- 
erring instinct all that was showy, or too elabo- 
rate, she soon had Gray supplied with an abund- 
ance of needful, pretty clothing, after which, and 
in great glee, they came to the question of 
dresses. < 

“ Now, Gray,” she said to the little girl, who, 
while saying little, had watched with delighted 
eyes all her proceedings, enjoying, as perhaps 
she never would again, the exquisite sense of 
ownership in all the good things ordered for 
her. “ Now, Gray, I am going to buy you three 
dresses; what color shall we choose first?” 


SHOPPING. 


83 


'' Blue,” Gray said, without hesitation. 

“A navy-blue flannel would be the best for a 
school-dress,” suggested the experienced sales- 
woman. 

“ School ? I am not sure she will go to 
school,” Mildred said, struck at the same time 
with a new thought about Gray’s present and 
future needs. “ But I suppose such a dress 
would be suitable for every-day, whether at 
school or at home.” 

So the little, blue flannel sailor-dress, with its 
pretty white trimmings, was ordered ; and next, 
a plaid of soft, bright colors, that Gray regarded 
with especial favor; and then, just as Mildred 
was hesitating over the third dress, whether it 
should be a delicate blue, that looked very 
dainty and lovely, or a red, that glowed with 
warmth and beauty, Mr. Oxford joined them. 

As he came up to them Gray stood still by 
Mildred’s side, too timid to go to him unbidden; 
but her soft eyes looked up to his with a grate- 
ful gladness, and the sweet mouth curved and 
dimpled into smiles no shyness could repress. 
Pleased with her innocent pleasure, Mr. Oxford 
asked : 

‘‘Well, Mildred, is this important business 
dispatched yet?” 

“ Not quite. Uncle Wallace,” Mildred said, 
brightly. “You are just in time; I am buying 


84 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


Gray’s last dress, and the all-important question 
is : shall she be a cardinal bird in this,” and she 
touched the red, “ or a lily in this,” and she 
lightly shook out the delicate blue. 

Mr. Oxford’s expression grew stern and 
proud. Once before he had seen a Lily in just 
such a blue, and he remembered the admiration, 
and playful grace with which it was received. 
It all came back to him now, and with all his 
old pride and bitterness he answered quickly : 

“ No ; no blue dresses for me, Mildred ; you 
may make Gray a peony if you like ; anything 
rather than a — ” He checked himself suddenly. 
He did not heed Mildred’s wondering look, nor 
Gray’s disappointed eyes. He seemed only to 
hear a warning voice — “ If ye forgive not — ” 

One sharp, momentary struggle ; and then, in 
the pleasant voice they had heard in the car- 
riage, he said : “ Wait a moment ; perhaps I am 
mistaken in my choice. Let me see the blue 
dress again, Mildred ; which does Gray like 
best ? ’’ 

Mildred looked at Gray. Which do you, 
dear?” she said, as the little girl hesitated. 

Mr. Oxford laid his hand gently on her head. 
“ Tell me,” he said ; “ which dress my little girl 
prefers ? ” 

The blue,” Gray whispered timidly. “ But 
I don’t want it if you don’t like it.” * 


SHOPPING. 


85 


“ But suppose I do like it ? I always thought 
blue a beautiful color. Yes,” he said to the 
saleswoman; “we will take this. What next, 
Mildred?” 

“ Hat and cloak,” Mildred said ; “ and I want 
some pretty white aprons, and collars, and some 
gloves, and handkerchiefs, and sashes, and — ” 

Mr. Oxford had listened with amusement to 
her enumeration of wants ; now, as she paused 
■for breath, he said laughingly : 

“ Mildred, stop. Let me collect my senses. 
You completely bewilder me. Is there never 
any end to a woman’s wants ? ” 

Mildred laughed. “ If there is, Uncle Wal- 
lace, I imagine it is ^nly when she has spent all 
her money; and you gave me so much it isn’t 
half gone yet. See.” 

“ I shall be wiser next time,” Mr. Oxford said 
pleasantly. “ But I am in no hurry ; so get what 
you want.” 

“ Now, Mildred,” her uncle said, when their 
business was accomplished ; “ I wish you to 
select something for yourself. What do you 
want most ? ” 

“In clothes?” Mildred said, in surprise. “I 
don’t want anything. Uncle Wallace, thank you. 
I’ve more now than I can take care of or wear 
out,” she added, with a girlish laugh. 

“ Have you ? well I suppose you have. But 


86 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


surely, Mildred, you are not so unlike the rest 
of humanity that you have nothing in the world 
for which to wish. Are you as well supplied 
with books and ornaments as with clothes ? ” 

“ Books ! ” Mildred’s bright face grew still 
brighter. “ There is a book I want very much,” 
she said eagerly; “but it is a very expensive 
one, I am afraid,” she added, in a soberer voice. 

“ Never mind about that. We’ll stop at Ash- 
ton’s, and there, Mildred, I give you full permis- 
sion to select as many books as you please. 
Here we are now.” And Mr. Oxford ordered 
the coachman to stop ; and leaving Gray in the 
carriage, they went into the store. 

“ Now, Mildred, give your order,” her uncle 
said pleasantly. “ Here are story-books enough 
to make a new thousand-and-one nights’ enter- 
tainment. Among so many you can certainly 
find the particular one you want.” 

“ But I don’t want a story-book. Uncle Wal- 
lace.” 

“No? Well; suit yourself. Get ‘whatever 
you do want.” And Mr. Oxford stood by with 
quiet indifference, and waited for Mildred to 
make known her choice. He turned to her 
with some surprise, however, when he heard it. 

“ ‘ Ruskin’s Modern Painters,’ ” he repeated 
slowly. “ Mildred, what do you know about 
that book ? ” 


SHOPPING. 


87 


Not much, Uncle Wallace ; but IVe read 
some extracts from it” 

“ Selected for young ladies, I suppose,” he 
said, with a somewhat scornful emphasis on the 
last two words. “ Now, my dear, take my ad- 
vice, and stick to the extracts. ‘ Modern Paint- 
ers’ is a work for art students, written by a 
severe critic. There are beautiful passages in it, 
it is true, but Mildred, of the five volumes that 
compose the work, you will probably be able to 
understand just enough to fill half a volume. 
The rest might as well be Hebrew, for all the 
pleasure you will derive from it.” 

“ I’ve a great admiration for what I cannot 
understand,” Mildred replied with composure. 
“And I like to look through Hebrew books, 
Uncle Wallace. It’s a pleasure to know I 
haven’t got through with everything worth 
knowing yet.” 

“ You will never get through with anything, 
I am afraid, if you persist in aiming so high 
above your head,” Mr. Oxford retorted. “There 
is but one way to avoid drowning, Mildred, in 
the world of books as well as in the world of 
waters, and that is never to venture beyond your 
depth.” 

“ Yes ; but Uncle Wallace, ht>w am I to know 
what my depth is, if I never step off the shore?” 

Mr. Oxford smiled. “I don’t forbid your 


88 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


stepping off,” he answered ; only, Mildred, be 
warned by Dr. Johnson’s failure, and don’t ever 
try to make little fishes talk like whales.” 

Mildred was quick to catch his meaning. 
“ Uncle Wallace,” she said, in a low, but indig- 
nant voice, “ I believe you think I am as full of 
conceit as a lemon is of acid. But I’ll promise 
never to quote ‘ Modern Painters ’ to you. Pll 
never speak of any book wiser than ‘ Mother 
Goose.’ I suppose you will admit I am capable 
of understanding that?” 

“You’re a very wise girl if you do understand 
it,” Mr. Oxford returned, with provoking cool- 
ness. “ Some of those old nursery jingles are 
among the best uninspired parables I know. 
For instance, Mildred, what do you make of 
this? 

“ ‘ Little old woman ; whither so high ? 

To sweep the cobwebs out of the sky.’ ’ 

“ I don’t make anything of it,” Mildred re- 
plied quickly. “She was a very silly old wo- 
man, I think.” 

“ You don’t ; and she was,” her uncle returned, 
in a voice of cool amusement. “ It has never 
occurred to you, I suppose, that there might be 
lurking under those silly lines an'implied asser- 
tion, that the little old woman was only mis- 
taking her work, and like many another, young 
as well as old, aiming at something great and 


SHOPPING. 


89 


impossible, while she neglected the lowly and 
near. Perhaps, too, you have never thought, 
that very possibly the sky had no need of her 
good broom’s services, while quite likely the 
corners of her room had great. There is a ser- 
mon for you, preached from Mother Goose,” he 
added, with a smile. “ Now, don’t you think 
you might study that despised Saxon Sibyl 
awhile longer with profit?” 

Mildred looked rather crest-fallen. 

If I am to read books for the sake of finding 
out what isn’t in them,” she said, in a tone of 
slight v^exation, “ why, then, I suppose Mother 
Goose will do as well as anything else.” 

“ I want you to read everything, Mildred, 
with your soul eyes open ; watchful always for 
suggested truths, for hidden, beautiful inter- 
pretations. Use your mind. Remember it is 
not a difference in the sense of sight, so much as 
it is a difference in the use of that sense, that 
will make one man see a worthless pebble, and 
another, a priceless jewel in the same stone. 
But here are your books. Now, my dear, if you 
want nothing else we will go.” 

Unobserved by both Mildred and Mr. Ox- 
ford, a gentleman had been standing just behind 
them examining a pile of books. Though they 
spoke low, he could not well avoid hearing what 
they said, and more than once his lip had curled 


90 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


in amusement. As they left the store he looked 
curiously after them, but he only saw the backs 
of two well-dressed persons, and caught the 
gleam of the girl’s bright hair, as a puff of wind 
blew aside the plume of her hat. 

His look was only for an instant, then he re- 
turned to his books and, interested in them, 
would perhaps have thought no more of the 
strangers who had so^amused him ; but as he 
stepped over the threshold of the store when 
leaving, he noticed a folded handkerchief at his 
feet. As he picked it up, and looked for a name, 
he read, Mildred Hathaway, and at once re- 
called the conversation to which he had just 
listened. It was useless to think of restoring it 
to its owner, and he would not leave it to be 
trampled in the street. 

“ Mildred Hathaway,” he said, with a peculiar 
emphasis on the last name, as he placed the 
handkerchief in his pocket; yes, I truly think 
she has. Well, little lady, I do not know your 
address, and therefore cannot restore this dainty 
bit of cambric to you. And, probably, in this 
queer world of chances and changes, I shall 
never know whether you learn to read between 
the lines, as your wise uncle desires, or not. 
But however great your ambition and conceit,” 
and he smiled as he recalled Mildred’s com- 
parison, “ I believe it is all sweetened with a 
8 * 


SHOPPING. 


91 


truth that would scorn to appear what it was 
not. And that is a grand thing in any char- 
acter.” 

Quite unconscious of her loss, Mildred at the 
same moment was saying to her uncle, as they 
entered his house : 

“ I’ve had a beautiful time. Uncle Wallace ; I 
think this has been the prettiest day I ever 
know. And now, will you please have those 
parcels sent right in ? I want to go up-stairs to 
Gray’s room for a little while. Where is your 
room. Gray?” 

“ My room ? ” Gray looked surprised at the 
question. 

“ Yes, your room ; where you sleep, you 
know.” 

“ Oh ! I sleep in the big closet out of Susan’s 
room, down-stairs.” 

Mildred glanced at her uncle; he looked 
mortified and annoyed. 

“ I had forgotten to inquire about this,” he 
said, as he rang the bell. “At first I was in- 
different, and lately, with so much to think of 
this did not occur to me, but now — ” 

“ Susan,” he said, as she answered his sum- 
mons, “ I want you to arrange the little room 
opposite mine for — Miss Gray,” he added, with 
emphasis. 

“ Yes, sir,” Susan replied, discreetly. 


92 


THE IVA y HO A/E. 


“ Peter,” she said awhile after, when she had 
performed her task and returned to the base- 
ment. “ Peter.” 

“ Wal, wut?” Peter demanded, bluntly. 

“ You don’t spose Gray is a witch, du you ?” 

“A wut?” Peter retorted. Hev you gone 
crazy, Susan? Ef she’s a witch, I wish she’d 
bewitch you into bein’ a sensible woman, and 
askin’ sensible questions.” 

“ Don’t fatigue yourself makin’ wishes, Peter,” 
Susan replied, affectionately. “ I dare say I’d 
make as sensible a president as you, any day, 
ef I am a woman ; and I’ll tell you this : the 
millennium is pretty near, for the lion’s growin* 
meek as a lamb, and a little child is leadin’ him, 
and here in this house, too.” 

Half an hour later a little, daintily-dressed 
figure opened the library-door, and stepped 
softly into the room. Mr. Oxford stood on tlie 
rug, just as he had stood when, three months 
before, Gray had seen him for the first time. 

Grave and quiet as then was his manner, and 
a careless observer might have thought him in 
all things the same; but as he saw Gray his 
whole expression changed. Smilingly he held 
out his hand and drew her to his side, and then 
very gently took her in his arms. 

“ Gray.” he said, “ you belong to me now, 
and I will love and take care of you always. 


SHOPPING. 


93 


Do you think you can be happy to live with 
me, and be my little girl ?” 

For a moment the child hesitated. Then the 
sweet, innocent lips were pressed to his, and as 
he bent over her she whispered : 

“ You are very good to me, and 1 11 try to be 
a good little girl to you, Just as my own papa 
told me.” 


CHAPTER V. 

A NEW acquaintance. 


“The unfolding star calls up the shepherd.” — Shakespeare. 


WEEK passed before Mildred saw her 



uncle or Gray again. There came a suc- 
cession of stormy days, followed by a genuine 
February thaw, that caused all who were not 
forced to go out into the damp, chilly air, to 
abide in glad contentment by their own fire- 


sides. 


With Saturday there came a pleasant change. 
A crisp, west wind blew away the clouds and 
vapors ,• dried the mud, and seemed, as it whis- 
tled lightly at windows, and tapped at doors, to 
be inviting imprisoned ones into the sunshine 
of a day that, though claimed by winter, be- 
longed in its character and promises solely to 
spring. 

A little wearied with the week’s confinement, 
and the almost unbroken companionship of 
school-books and masters, Mildred gladly wel- 
comed the change in sky and wind ; and after a 


( 94 ) 


A NEW A CQ UAINTANCE. 95 

long ride with her brother, found herself “ be- 
tween the dark and the daylight,” comfortably 
resting in an easy chair in her uncle’s library. 

Gray had a cold, and Susan, after adminis- 
tering bountifully of hot baths and teas, had fin- 
ished by wrapping her up well, and putting her 
to bed, where she besought Mildred to leave her 
in peace. 

Mr. Oxford was out; and alone in the library 
the girl waited, while the fire and her own bright 
fancies made pleasant company for her. 

“Here’s a pansy; that’s for thought,” Mr. 
Oxford said, as he came in presently, and laid a 
bunch of the velvet-leafed, delicate flowers 
against her cheek. 

Mildred started up. “Uncle Wallace,” she 
said. “ I am glad you have come. I wanted to 
see you so much.” 

“ May I know why, Mildred ? ” 

Mildred looked at him with curiously earnest 
eyes. “ Why should you think I wanted to see 
you for any particular or unusual reason ? ” she 
asked. 

“ I shouldn’t, I suppose, if you were not a 
rather unusual young lady, Mildred. I am 
learning to believe, my dear, that your wants 
have generally some very excellent reasons to 
justify them ; and therefore, since I am wanted, 
I naturally inquire, why ? ” 


9G 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“Well, then, I will tell you,” Mildred an- 
swered. “ I want to ask a question about Gray. 
Uncle Wallace are you going to send her to 
school ? ” 

“And have her developed — that’s the fashion- 
able word, isn’t it, my dear ? — into a fine young 
lady, with a smattering of fifty ’ologies, silly, 
affected manners, and a contempt for everything 
really noble and useful. No, decidedly, Mil- 
dred. I desire no boarding-schools for Gray.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of a boarding-school,” Mil- 
dred said ; “ of course, I didn’t suppose you 
would want to send Gray away from home now. 
But there are day-schools. Uncle Wallace; I 
have always been to. one. Do you think I am 
going to make such a woman as you have just 
described ? ” she asked, with a sudden increase 
of color in her face, and energy in her voice. 

Mr. Oxford looked at her, and half-repented 
his ungracious criticism ; but he fancied he de- 
tected a little vanity and conceit in Mildred’s 
question, and for vanity and conceit he had as 
much sympathy as the frost has for the flower 
it chills. So he answered coldly : 

I would not have presumed to say so, un- 
bidden, Mildred ; but since you are so ready to 
put the coat on, you must pardon my inferring 
that you find it a good fit. Personalities are 
always dangerous, and sometimes very disagree- 


97 


A NE IV ACQUAINTANCE 

able ; you will find it safe never to invite them.” 
Then, as he saw the girl’s pained face, he 
regretted his sharp words, and added kindly : 

“ I was only thinking of young ladies in gen- 
eral, Mildred ; present company is, you know, 
always excepted. You alone, my dear, can de- 
termine what kind of woman you will make. 
But though I might throw a diamond into the 
fire and receive it back uninjured, it does not 
follow that it would be safe for me to subject a 
pearl to the same treatrnent. I am an old fogy, 
I dare say, and have a great many antiquated 
notions ; but I do not approve of fashionable 
schools, nor admire fashionable young ladies; 
and I will not send my little girl to the one, nor 
have her grow up into the other, if I can help 
it.” 

“ What will you do, then. Uncle Wallace ? she 
must be educated, you know, and fitted to fill 
her place in society.” 

“ Her place in society!” Mr. Oxford repeated 
slowly and scornfully. “ Mildred, I am sorry to 
hear that phrase from your lips. Have you no 
higher ambition for yourself than to acquire a 
few showy accomplishments, and be, for a few 
years, a butterfly ornament in society ? ” 

Mildred’s fece flushed. “ I didn’t mean that. 
Uncle Wallace,” she said, with quick indigna- 
tion, “ and I think you know I didn’t.” 

9 G 


98 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


** Didn’t you, my dear ? I beg your pardon. 
I was only judging you by your words. But if 
that was not your meaning, Mildred, suppose 
you tell me frankly what you do mean ? What 
is to be the result of these long years of study 
on your part ? What fruit do you expect your 
many lessons to bring forth in the coming time ? ” 
Mildred hesitated. “ I don’t know. Uncle 
Wallace. I don’t think I have ever thought 
much about it ; only, of course, the more I know 
the better and happier I shall be.” 

“Are you sure ? There is the wisdom of the 
serpent, Mildred ; do you suppose it adds to his 
goodness ? And even if you are right, are your 
own goodness and happiness to be the chief 
motive ? Have you no higher motive for 
study than simply your own selfish benefit ? ” 
Mildred reflected looking into the fire. 

“ Uncle Wallace,” she asked, “ don’t you be- 
lieve in educating women ? ” 

“ Yes, most emphatically.” 

“ Then why, why do you talk so to me ? ” 

“ Because there are a great many different 
ways of educating women, Mildred, and a great 
many different reasons for doing so. 

“ ‘ Many ways — and but one true way. 

Which is very rare : 

And the counterfeits show fairest. 

Though they will not wear.’ ” 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 99 

“What is the true way.?” Mildred asked; 
“ and am I a counterfeit, Uncle Wallace ? ” 

“ Descending to personalities again, Mildred ? 
It depends, my dear. Which is the true way, 
did you ask ? It is that which cultivates with 
equal care and faithfulness, the body and heart, 
as well as mind. And does so, not for the sake 
of gaining the chief seats in the synagogue, or 
the praise of men, but simply and sincerely with 
a view to God’s glory, and the good of our 
fellow-men.” 

“ Is that the way you want to educate Gray?” 
Mildred asked. 

“ Yes, if I can.” 

“ You will need to write some new text -books 
for her, then ; they don’t spend much time on 
such lessons in the schools .1 know about.” 

“ They are quite old-fashioned, I am afraid. 
But there is one book, Mildred, that holds them 
all. Studying it made your mother the woman 
she is ; and loving study of it now will make her 
daughter, and little Gray, all that is pure, lovely, 
and of good report. And if there is anything 
worthier of their ambition than the attainment 
of such a character, I have yet to learn what it 
is.” 

“ But, Uncle Wallace, would you have us 
study and read nothing but our Bibles ? I think 
I would like to know a little more than Cowper’s 


100 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


peasant, who just knew — and knew no more — 
her Bible true/' 

Mr. Oxford frowned. 

“ Take care, Mildred. The fields of knowl- 
edge are many, and you may glean in them all, 
and yet fail of knowing as much as the humble 
peasant/' 

Mildred did not answer, and after a short 
silence, Mr. Oxford said : 

“ In truth, Mildred, I have been considering 
quite seriously, what I shall do with Gray, I do’ 
not want to send her to school, and sometimes I 
have thought I would teach her myself. But 
there are many hours when I am out, and I do 
not like to leave her alone with Susan and Peter 
only for companions. I am really quite puzzled, 
and if you have any suggestions to offer, I shall 
be glad to hear them.” 

” O, let her come and live with me,” Mildred 
said, with animation. 

Mr. Oxford raised his eyebrows slightly. 

“ Hum, Mildred, your way of untying the 
knot is as wise and sure as Alexander’s. There 
is only one objection to your plan. I cannot 
come myself. I am a lonely man, and I cannot 
spare Gray now. She has come into my home 
and life, to be a tie, binding me at once closer to 
God and to my fellow-men. I cannot part with 
her, and I cannot let her live as she has for the 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


101 


last three months. There are objections to every 
plan, and Hobson's choice seems the only one 
left me.” 

“ There is a governess,” Mildred said. 

“ Yes, I know. But I should require some- 
thing more than a mere teacher of books and 
deportment ; and where can such a governess as 
I want be found ? ” 

“You might advertise,” Mildred suggested; 
“ or answer an advertisement. Perhaps you 
could find just the lady you want, in that way.” 

“ Very likely ! It seems about as probable as 
it was that Columbus would find his shortest 
route to East India by sailing west. Still — Mil- 
dred, how would you like to take charge of this 
business for me ? ” 

“How? In what way?” Mildred asked, in 
great surprise. 

“ Those two important questions I will leave 
you to decide. I believe you have considerable 
executive ability. I judge so from our shop- 
ping expedition of last Saturday ; and now, if 
you will take hold of this matter, and accom- 
plish it as surely and successfully as you did the 
other, you will place me under very deep obliga- 
tions to you.” 

Mildred considered the subject. 

“ This business is not quite as easy as that 
was,” she said, gravely. “ I cannot go out and 
9 ^ 


102 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


buy a governess for Gray, in the same way that 
I could buy her dresses.” 

That is very true,” Mr. Oxford answered. 
“And I am afraid you ought not to be concerned 
in this matter at all ; I fear your mother would 
hardly approve of my putting such a serious 
duty into such young hands. But — I have it, 
Mildred, we can do this : look over the adver- 
tisements in the papers the first of next week, 
and if there are any that promise to meet our 
need, take Rachel with you — remember you are 
on no account to go alone — and call on the ad- 
vertisers. If you find a true, refined, Christian 
lady, who would, you think, answer, then report 
to me, and I will conduct the remaining nego- 
tiations. Are you willing to do this, Mildred?” 

Mildred looked up with a hopeful smile 
into her uncle’s sober face. 

“Yes,” she said. “It will be a new experi- 
ence, Uncle Wallace, and I really think I shall 
enjoy it, and, any way, with Rachel with me, it 
cannot be very dreadful.” 

Monday evening found Mildred sitting with 
her brother in their pleasant study. But in- 
stead of poring as usual over her books, she was 
scanning with an earnest, absorbed face, the long 
columns of advertisements in the daily paper. 

“What are you looking for, Mildred?” Rob- 
ert asked, as, raising his eyes for an instant from 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


103 


his own book, he noticed her occupation. *‘Are 
you studying those advertisements in order to 
get a new insight into the wants and require- 
ments of humanity ? ” 

“No, nothing of the sort,” Mildred answered, 
without laying aside the paper. “ How can you 
be so absurd, Robert ? I am looking for a gover- 
ness.” 

“A governess, Mildred ? I echo your ques- 
tion : how can you be so absurd ? What do you 
want a governess for ? ” 

“ Why to teach, to be sure ; what else could I 
want her for?” 

Robert looked puzzled. “To teach whom, 
pray? I thought you had teachers enough at 
school.” 

“ So I have, more than I shall do honor to, 
I am afraid,” Mildred said, with a half sigh. “ I 
am not looking for myself ; Uncle Wallace wants 
a governess for Gray, and I am to find her.” 

“You?” Robert said, with a gay laugh. 
“ Well, Mildred, I’ve heard of setting a rogue to 
catch a rogue ; but this is the first time I ever 
heard of sending a school-girl to engage a gov- 
erness. How are you to judge of her fitness for 
the position, pray?” 

“ Why, by — by the fitness she shows for it, of 
course. Here, listen, Robert, this seems what I 
want : 


104 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“A middle-aged lady wishes to find a situation as day- 
teacher or governess, in a Christian family. Call on or ad- 
dress, • Mrs. L. G. H. Corbett. 

“ I like that, and I’ll call on her to-morrow,” 
Mildred said, as she took her pencil and copied 
the address. 

“ I’ve heard that brevity was the soul of wit,” 
Robert said, quietly, “and, judging from your 
words, Mildred, you must consider it the soul 
of wisdom, too. That lady says as little about 
herself as she possibly can.” 

“That’s what I like about it,” Mildred re- 
plied. “ It’s as refreshing as lemonade on a 
warm day, to see such a simple advertisement 
as that among these lists of applicants who pos- 
sess every conceivable virtue, and can do every 
desirable thing. I don’t want a loud flourish of 
trumpets. When Jack Horner tells you he is a 
great boy, you may be pretty sure you would 
need magnifying-glasses before you would ever 
discover the fact yourself” 

Robert said, with a laugh : “ But seriously, 
Mildred, I don’t approve of your concerning 
yourself in this matter at all.” 

“ Don’t you ? Well, then, Robert dear, for 
once, just for variety’s sake, and to add a little 
spice to our monotonous life, I shall have to do 
something you do not approve.” 

Robert bit his lip, and looked for a second 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 105 

much annoyed. Then, as he met Mildred’s 
laughing eyes, his face brightened. 

“Where does this important individual live?” 
he asked, taking the paper. “ In Carleton 
avenue ? that’s not a bad part of the town ; but 
you are not to go there alone, Mildred. If you 
do, you may find that in spicing your life you 
have destroyed its sweetness. For I assure you 
I will not soon forgive you if you do anything 
as imprudent as that.” 

“ Don’t fear,” Mildred said, as she perched 
herself on the arm of her brother’s chair, and 
playfully ran her fingers through his curly locks, 
“ Rachel is to go with me. Uncle Wallace was 
as decided as you about that. And, to add to 
your peace of mind. I’ll tell you that I am only 
to see the lady, and report to Uncle Wallace. 
If I like her then he is to call on her, that’s all.” 

“And quite enough, I should say,” Robert 
retorted. “ Mildred, I have two coins in my 
pocket; one is real, one counterfeit. If your 
life depended on your decision, you could not 
tell the true from the false. And yet you think 
you can meet this entire stranger, and decide as 
to her fitness for the responsible situation Uncle 
Wallace has to give. You are as full of self- 
confidence as a balloon is of gas, and you are as 
capable of forming a correct judgment in this 
matter, as a bat is of tracing a constellation. 


10 § 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Just as much, and no more. Well, girls will 
be girls, to the end of the chapter.” 

“ We have too much consideration for you,” 
Mildred answered, saucily. “We don’t want 
quite to overwhelm you with our superiority. 
Portia is so far in advance of you now, that 
you’d best not quarrel with her, or you may 
find she will leave no room on the judgment- 
seat for you.” 

Robert laughed. “You gypsy, is that in- 
tended as a threat? Bring your Schiller and 
let us make peace by reading German.” 

True to her purpose, the next day Mildred 
obtained an excuse from school, and early in 
the afternoon started with Rachel to call on 
Mrs. Corbett. She found the house without 
difficulty, rang the bell, and was directed to the 
front room on the third floor. 

The door of the room stood open, and Mil- 
dred never forgot her first impression of both it 
and its occupant. The room itself was simply 
furnished, but beautifully neat. An air of ex- 
quisite refinement pervaded it, but there was no 
hint of luxury, unless one could find it in the 
flower-stand, that, with its trailing vines and 
delicate scents of violet and mignonette, stood 
in the window. And the lady who came for- 
ward to meet her seemed to Mildred in perfect 
harmony with her surroundings. 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 


107 


For once,” as she said that night to Robert, 
** the hymn and its music made a perfect melody.” 

She was a woman far from young, but one who 
in heart would never be old ; with a grave but 
singularly gentle manner, and with soft, dark 
eyes that smiled a pleasant welcome, though 

’Twas as if remembering they had wept, 

And knowing they should some day weep again.” 

Waves of soft, gray hair, whitened more by the 
frosts of life, than of time, were hidden beneath 
the fair, spotless frills of a Quakeress’ cap ; and 
her quiet, gray dress, with the sheer muslin 
kerchief drawn in Quaker-like precision across 
her breast, served only to deepen the impression 
she conveyed of peace and quiet joy. Looking 
on her, you could not doubt but she had suf- 
fered and borne the chastening discipline of life ; 
but neither could you doubt that she had gained 
at last life’s blessed gift of 

“A heart at leisure from itself 
To soothe and sympathize.” 

She was so unlike Mildred’s ideas of a practical, 
energetic woman, who, though good, would still 
be strongly leavened with the world and its 
ways, that she gazed at her with admiring eyes, 
and forgot the well-prepared speech she had 
sketched for her introduction. 


108 


OAT THE WA Y HOME, 


“ Can I do anything for thee? does thee wish 
to see any one ? ” the lady asked, after waiting a 
second for Mildred to speak. 

Mildred came to herself with a start and a deep 
blush for the rude staring of which she felt guilty. 

“ Excuse me, please,” she said ; “ I wish to see 
Mrs. Corbett.” 

“ I am Mrs. Corbett,” the lady answered, with 
quiet dignity. “ Will thee walk in ? ” 

Mildred took the chair Mrs. Corbett gave her, 
and after a little hesitation handed her the ad- 
vertisement she had cut that morning from the 
paper, saying with simple directness : 

“ My name is Mildred Hathaway. I called in 
reference to that.” 

Mrs. Corbett smiled. “ Does thee want a 
teacher for thyself? ” she asked. 

“ No, not for myself. I go to school and have 
masters at home,” Mildred answered, with the 
frankness of a girl whose confidence was won. 
“ But I want a governess, or rather my uncle 
does, for a little girl ; and I thought perhaps — ” 
Mildred stopped. She could not tell the lady 
before her that she had called to see if she 
“ would do,” and yet that was just her errand. 

Mrs. Corbett relieved her of all embarrass- 
ment. 

“I understand,” she said, pleasantly. “Thee is 
acting now in thy uncle’s behalf. It is very kind 


A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 109 

of thee, and I shall be pleased to answer any 
questions thee may wish to ask,” 

A sense of the ridiculousness of her position 
struck Mildred just then, and she laughed out- 
right. 

” I beg your pardon, Mrs. Corbett,” she said 
quickly ; “ I don’t think I have any questions to 
ask. I was only to call and — report,” she said, 
with a truthfulness that won her a pleasant smile 
from Mrs. Corbett. ' “ My uncle will call on you 
very soon, I think ; that is, if you would care to 
take charge of his little girl.” 

Mrs. Corbett mused a while. “ I think I might 
like it,” she said, soon, “ though it is a little dif- 
ferent from what I anticipated. I had thought 
of a family — of young ladies, perhaps. I would 
like a great deal to do,” she added, with a low 
sigh. 

“ I think you would have a good deal to do 
there, Mrs. Corbett/’ Mildred replied. “ Little 
Gray is all alone, and when my- uncle is out’ 
there is no one to take care of her but the 
servants. My uncle will want you to take the 
sole charge of her, what he doesn’t take himself, 
that is,” and Mildred smiled as she spoke. 

“ Has the little girl no mother? How old is 
she ? ” Mrs. Corbett asked. 

“ She is ten, I think. She has neither father 
nor mother.” 

10 


110 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“No father? then she is not thy uncle’s 
child ? ” 

“ No ; my uncle is unmarried. She is the 
child of an old friend of his. I don’t know her 
story; but my uncle is very fond of her, and very 
anxious to have her carefully and thoroughly 
educated — at home : he doesn’t like schools.” 

Mrs. Corbett smiled a little. “ I shall be 
pleased to see thy uncle,” she said, “ and if he 
wishes, I think I should like to take charge of 
the little girl : will thee tell me her name ? ” 

“ Lilian Gray Hastings. But my uncle does 
not like the name of Lily; so she is always 
called Gray.” 

^Jt seemed to Mildred that Mrs. Corbett’s calm 
face changed suddenly : her lips compressed as 
if with pain, and her dark eyes wore the troubled 
look of one who was suffering. But she said 
nothing, only passed her hand once or twice 
across her forehead. 

“Will thee tell me thy uncle’s name?” she 
asked presently, in the quiet tone in which she 
had carried on all the conversation. 

“ Mr. Wallace Oxford,” Mildred answered. 

Mrs. Corbett asked no more questions. For 
a few moments she sat in silent thought, and 
then said in a tone of decision, but more as if 
she were speaking to herself than to Mildred : 

I will make the effort.” 


A NEW ^ACQ UAINTANCE. 


Ill 


Rising, she went to a small desk at the end of 
the room, and, taking out some papers, returned 
to her seat by Mildred. 

Before thy uncle takes the trouble to call,” 
she said, “ he ought to know what references 
and testimonials I have to give. These are let- 
ters from friends in Philadelphia. I lived there 
many years ; taught there a while. Thee can 
show them to Mr. Oxford. If he is satisfied, 
why, then, I shall be glad to do what I can for 
the little girl.” 

“ Thank you,” Mildred said, as she took the 
papers ; I shall see my uncle to-night ; and I 
hope very much, Mrs. Corbett, that little Gray 
will soon be in your care.” 

“ Thee appears to love her very much,” Mrs. 
Corbett remarked quietly. 

“ Indeed, I do,” Mildred replied with en- 
thusiasm. 

“And thy uncle? has she been with him long? 
Does he love her as thee does ? ” 

“ Uncle Wallace ! Did you ever read of the 
door that would open only to one magical word, 
Mrs. Corbett? I think my uncle’s heart was 
like that door ; and little Gray was the only one 
I have ever known who could say sesame to it.” 

“And she has said it, and been obeyed ? ” 

“ You will think so, when you see her with 
my uncle,” Mildred answered, as she rose to go. 


112 


ON THE WA r HOME. 


Mrs. Corbett made no reply. She followed 
her visitors into the hall, and wished them a 
grave “ Good-evening and then, as they went 
quickly down-stairs, turned back into her own 
room and closed the door. 

On their way home, Mildred and Rachel 
called at Mr. Oxford’s. He was in ; and with- 
out ceremony, Mildred ran into the library cry- 
ing: 

“ I’ve found her. Uncle Wallace!” 

Mr. Oxford looked up from his book with a 
smile. “You have; and pray what is she like, 
Mildred?” 

“ Like I ” Mildred untied her bonnet strings 
and stood still, thinking. 

“I never saw any one just like her before, 
Uncle Wallace,” she said slowly.- “ She is a 
quaker lady, and compared with ordinary wo- 
men she is like a bit of hearts-ease, growing 
among tulips and poppies.” 

Mr. Oxford looked amused. “ Sit down, Mil- 
dred,” he said, “and give me, if you can, a plain 
report of your call. You may write all the 
poetry about it you choose hereafter, but just 
now I believe our object will be better attained 
if you talk in plain prose.” 

Thus admonished, Mildred sat down by her 
uncle, and gave him a full account of her visit. 
Mr. Oxford listened, asked a few questions, and 


A NE IV ACQUAINTANCE. 113 

finally opened the letters and looked them care- 
fully over. Some of them bore signatures that 
he knew well. All were satisfactory, and spoke 
in high terms of Mrs. Corbett as a cultivated, 
Christian woman, in whose care the most anxious 
parents could safely trust their children. 

Mr. Oxford read them, and laid them care- 
fully away. 

I will call on the lady to-morrow,” he said, 
“ and arrange with her to come for a while on 
trial.” 

And satisfied with this result, Mildred went 
home to give Robert a glowing description of 
Mrs. Corbett, and to rejoice that her part in the 
important business had been so happily per- 
formed. 

10 * H 


CHAPTER VI. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


“The least flower, with a brimming cup, may stand 
And share its dewdrop with another near.” 

— Mrs. Browning. 



HROUGH the hall of Mr. Oxford’s usually 


quiet house there ran a ripple of joyous 
laughter, as meeting him at the front door, Gray 
waited for him to lay aside his overcoat, and 
give her the kiss with which now he always met 
and parted from her. 

“ Well, my little girl, how has the world run 
with you, to-day ? ” 

“ It hasn’t run very far,” Gray said gayly, as 
she took Mr. Oxford’s hand and led him into 
the library. “I haven’t been outside the gate 
to-day.” 

“ Been kept in all day, like a caged bird, have 
you?” Mr. Oxford said, as he .sat down and 
drew the child into his arms. “ Then I think it 
is quite time you had a breath of this beautiful 
spring air. What do you say to taking a walk 
after dinner, and calling on Cousin Mildred?” 


( 114 ; 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


115 


** I say it will be delightful,” she answered 
with animation. But,” in a moment, and with 
a mixture of hesitation and coaxing in her voice 
that was very winning, she said, “ wouldn’t it be 
better, uncle, if you should take me to the 
hospital ? ” 

“ Take you to the hospital ? ” Mr. Oxford re- 
peated, with a smile; “what for, pray?” 

“ To see that poor sick girl, Barbara ; I want 
to go so much.” 

“That is quite evident, since you prefer the 
hospital to Mildred. But, Gray, why do you 
want to go? You don’t know that poor girl; 
why can’t you be content with knowing she is 
receiving kind, good care in the hospital, with- 
out wanting to go there yourself?” 

“ I feel so sorry for her,” Gray said, with 
simple truthfulness, “and — ” while her head 
drooped, and the words came so softly that he 
had to stoop to hear — “ I think Jesus would go 
if he was here.” 

“ Be ye therefore followers of God, as dear 
children.” With a beauty and power he had 
never felt in those words before, they echoed 
through Mr. Oxford’s mind now. But he gave 
no expression to the thoughts Gray’s little 
speech suggested, and only said : 

“ It is too late for the hospital, to-night ; but 
to-morrow, if the day is pleasant, you shall have 


116 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


yojur wish. Come, now, or Susan will never 
forgive us for keeping the dinner waiting, and 
after it there will be no time for Cousin Mil- 
dred.” 

Eagerly little Gray studied the weather pro- 
babilities next morning. It was a misty spring 
morning, but slowly and surely, in the beautiful 
order of heaven, the vapory clouds lifted, rolled 
up and vanished, and the delicate blue of a cloud- 
less April sky smiled upon them. Gray watched 
the changing skies from the school-room win- 
dow with eyes that beamed with satisfaction. 
Her lessons seemed long and tedious. 

The last lesson was ended, and the last book 
put away just before Mr. Oxford appeared in 
the open door. Strange as it seemed, it was yet 
true that he had scarcely seen Mrs. Corbett 
since she became an inmate of his house. 

He had made all the necessary arrangements 
for her comfort ; had charged Susan to pay her 
every attention ; had introduced Gray, and then 
quietly gone his way. He had confidence in 
the lady ; letters of his own, written to friends in 
Philadelphia, had brought him renewed assur- 
ances of her ability and merit ; and as day by 
day he watched Gray, he could see that seed 
was being sown, that by and by would spring 
up and bear fruit that would make her life one 
of fragrance and beauty. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


117 


Satisfied that it was so, and secretly glad that 
the lady was not disposed to trouble him with 
her presence and society, Mr. Oxford con- 
gratulated himself on the favorable ending to 
what had threatened to be a very disagreeable 
business ; and in his library, with Gray and his 
books, politely ignored, if he did not much of 
the time quite forget Mrs. Corbett’s existence. 

But now, as he stood in the open door, and 
glanced carelessly at the lady, something in her 
expression and attitude arrested his attention. 
Some shadowy, fleeting resemblance — for even 
as he looked it was gone — to some one he had 
somewhere seen or known, struck the “electric 
chain wherewith we’re darkly bound,” and for 
an instant Mr. Oxford stood silent, perplexed 
and doubtful. 

The room was quiet and peaceful ; the very 
spirit of spring seemed to pervade it. There 
were no dark corners, no veiled recesses any- 
where. The windows were open, the curtains 
looped far back, and in the centre of the room, 
where the light fell in warmest, brightest rays 
upon her, sat Mrs. Corbett with Gray in her 
arms. There was a deep tenderness, a yearning 
affection in her face and manner, a something 
that told of a denied life that had entered into 
peace. How was it that he seemed to under- 
stand her so well ? Had he known Mrs. Cor- 


118 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


bett ? The baffling effort we have all known to 
give local habitation and a name to an indistinct 
momentary vision, a passing, fading expression, 
oppressed and disturbed him. 

It was but for a moment. Then Mrs. Corbett 
raised her eyes, saw him, and putting Gray 
down, with the gentle, grave air peculiar to her, 
advanced to meet him. 

“Will thee come in, Mr. Oxford?” she asked. 

“ No, thank you,” the gentleman replied ; “ I 
came for this little girl. Can you spare her for 
the afternoon, Mrs. Corbett ? ” 

Mrs. Corbett looked at Gray’s eager, impa- 
tient little face and smiled. She knew the story 
of Barbara and the proposed visit. 

“Willingly,” she said; “ lessons ‘are just over, 
and she has won a holiday by her faithfulness 
through the morning.” 

“ Then, with your permission, I will take her 
away,” Mr. Oxford said, extending his hand to 
Gray. “ Come, my dear, run and get ready for 
your visit.” 

Half an hour later, when, full of a bird-like 
sweetness and glee. Gray joined Mr. Oxford in 
the library, she found him sitting with his head 
resting on his hand, absorbed in deep and evi- 
dently painful thought. 

His serious face brightened, however, 'yvdth a 
kind smile as the happy child came to his side, 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


119 


and taking her hand, they went forth rejoicing 
in the loveliness of a perfect spring day. 

“ Oh, how beautiful ! ” and Gray stopped sud- 
denly as at one of the street corners they came 
upon a flower-stand fragrant with violets and 
early flowers. 

Mr. Oxford smiled. **Well, my little lady, 
what is your pleasure now?” he asked. 

Gray looked at him with coaxing eyes. 

May I take some of these to that poor little 
girl?” 

Yes, as many as you please.” And with the 
generous impulse of a child, Gray selected 
several bunches of the freshest and sweetest 
flowers. 

“ So many?” Mr. Oxford said. “ My dear, I 
am afraid your hands are not as large as your 
heart. How do you expect to carry all these 
flowers ?” 

Gray did not answer, but waiting by the stand 
she tried to gather all the bunches up into one 
large one and clasp her little hands around it. 

“ Oh, dear ! ” she said, as she found her efforts 
useless, “ I wish I had an apron on : then I could 
carry them.” 

“A basket would answer as well as an apron, 
wouldn’t it ? ” Mr. Oxford asked. “ Come in 
here,” and he walked towards a fruit store; 
“ perhaps we can find what we want here.” 


120 


ON THE IV A y HOME. 


They were soon supplied with a pretty willow- 
basket, in which, with great delight. Gray ar- 
ranged her flowers ; and when among them Mr. 
Oxford laid a large bunch of tempting white 
grapes her satisfaction and happiness were 
complete. 

With beaming face, though few words, she 
walked by Mr. Oxford’s side; and when they 
reached the hospital, followed him into the large, 
sunny ward, where the children were cared for. 

Gray looked with curious eyes on a scene 
to her so novel and strange. It was a pleasant, 
sunshiny room ; the walls were hung with 
bright pictures and illuminated texts, and the 
air was sweet with flowers ; the first gifts of the 
“Flower Mission,’’ that loving hands had that 
morning brought in to the little sufferers. Here 
and there, in some simple glass or vase, on 
stands by little beds, they lent their gentle in- 
fluences to a sick child’s feverish dreams, or 
gladdened the tired child-eyes with tender, 
soothing hints of shaded gardens, from which 
the young imagination could create worlds of 
delight and beauty for itself 

The long rows of little beds, with their fresh 
white coverings, looked to Gray, in her happy 
ignorance of sickness and pain, very easy and 
restful ; and her smiling eyes woke answering 
smiles on many a pale little face, as she walked 
down the room towards Barbara. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


121 


Barbara’s cot was placed quite near a western 
window. Propped up in it, she was resting 
on her pillow, and looking out with a far-away, 
longing expression on her wan, thin face. 

“ She has been very sick since she came, but 
she is better now,” the kind nurse whispered, as 
she made a place for Mr. Oxford and Gray by 
the bedside. 

Barbara knew them. Her sad eyes smiled a 
quiet welcome to Mr. Oxford, but lit up with 
brilliant pleasure when they saw Gray. 

“ Oh ! the little girl,” she said joyously; as if 
for her there was but one little girl in the world. 

“ Yes ; I’ve brought her to see you, Barbara,’* 
Mr. Oxford said kindly, half regretting that he 
had not done so before; “how do you do to- 
day?” 

“ Dunno ; guess I’m better,” she said, in an 
indifferent tone, while her eyes watched closely 
Gray’s every movement. 

“Would you like to stay here, while I go into 
the office to speak to the doctor ? I will come 
back in a little while,” Mr. Oxford said to Gray. 

Barbara heard the question. “ Do stay,” she 
pleaded. And timidly consenting. Gray released 
Mr. Oxford’s hand, and watched him as he 
walked down the long room to the door. 

Then her eyes came back to Barbara, and re- 
membering her basket, she placed it on the bed, 
11 


122 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


and taking out the flowers, put them in Bar- 
bara’s hand, and before her on the spread. 

“ Violets ! Oh ! , the pretty blue posies. I 
didn’t know they’d come,” she said, as she 
held the dainty “ bits of spring,” and looked at 
them with gentle eyes. 

I thought you’d like them,” Gray said, as 
she watched and enjoyed her pleasure; “and 
I’ve brought you something else, Barbara; guess 
what?” 

“Can’t,” Barbara said; “I never was no good 
at guessing, nohow. What is it?” 

“ Something real sweet. Here ; shut your 
eyes and open your mouth, Barbara, and I’ll give 
you one.” And on Barbara’s obeying. Gray put 
one of the largest grapes in her mouth. 

“Oh, my, ain’t it nice,” Barbara said, as she 
tasted it. 

“Will you have another?” Gray asked, en- 
joying greatly the importance she felt in feeding 
and taking care of the sick girl. 

But Barbara’s delicate appetite was satisfied. 
“No; not now,” she said, and once again her 
eyes went back to her flowers. 

“You’re very good to bring me these,” she 
said, with a smile, to Gray. 

Gray looked at her with pitying eyes. “ I 
wanted to bring you something,” she said. “I 
feel so sorry for you, Barbara.” 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


123 


“ Do you, now ? ” and Barbara’s face was full 
of surprise. “ I don’t see why the likes of you 
should be sorry for the likes of me.” 

“ Why, I’m just like you, Barbara. I’m a 
little girl, just as you are.” 

Barbara gave Gray a long, puzzled look. 

“ ’Pears to me there’s a difference,” she said 
wearily. “ I can’t make it out ; but I never was 
like nobody yet. He’s very good to you, the 
man that brought you here, ain’t he ? ” 

** My uncle ? yes ; ever so good. I can’t tell 
you how good,” Gray said, with animation. 

I thought so. That makes the difference, I 
guess. I never had nobody to be good to me.” 

** Only God,” Gray whispered timidly. 

“ Yes ; I’ve heard tell of him, but I never 
could make out much about it. What’s he done 
good to me, anyhow?” and Barbara looked at 
Gray, with eyes full of questions and doubts. 

“ Why, Barbara; don’t you know? He gave 
us Jesus.” 

Jesus ? who is he ? what’s he done, I want 
to know ?” g 

“He died for us,” Gray said, in a low, rever- 
ent tone. 

“ Died for us?” Barbara was fully interested 
now. “ What did he do that for ?” 

“ We were so wicked,” Gray answered, telling 
the old, old story in simplest language ; “ and 


124 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


he was so sorry for us, that he left his beautiful 
home in heaven, and came down here and died 
for us, Barbara.” 

But what good did that do?” Barbara asked. 

1 don’t think folks’ dying helps us much. 
Tears to me .it would have been better if he’d 
lived ; then maybe he’d taken care of me.” 

“He has taken care of you all the time, Bar- 
bara ; he brought you here.” 

“ He? why I thought your uncle brought me 
here. I didn’t see no Jesus.” 

Poor little Gray stood aghast at this exhibition 
of Barbara’s ignorance. 

“ Why, Barbara,” she said, while her tears be- 
gan to come, “ don’t you know ? hasn’t any one 
ever told you ? ” 

“ No ; no one never told me nothin’,” Barbara 
said, dejectedly. Then, with a little more hope in 
her voice, she whispered, “ S’pose you tell me 
now.” 

“ I’m such a little girl,” Gray said, humbly ; 
“ I don’t know how to tell you, Barbara ; but I’ve 
got a beautiful teacher at home, and I’ll ask her 
to come here to-morrow, and teach you ; will 
that do ? ” 

Barbara nodded. “ Tolable,” she said ; “ but 
I guess you can tell some more now ; s’pose you 
try.” 

What could she do ? In her perplexity. Gray 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


125 


climbed up on the cot, and leaned over Barbara, 
almost laying her bright head down on the pillow 
beside her. 

“ Barbara,” she said, “ Jesus was God’s Son ; 
he lived in heaven ; a beautiful place, where 
people are always happy, and never sick or in 
trouble ; and he loved us, Barbara, and wanted 
us, when we die, to live there with him ; but we 
couldn’t, because, Barbara, you know, we are not 
good.” 

Barbara gave a long, low sigh of assent. 

“And so,” Gray’s sweet child-voice went on, 
“just because he loved us, and felt so sorry for 
us that he must do something, he left his beau- 
tiful home among the angels, and came down 
here, one Christmas night a long, long time ago, 
to live and die just as we do, Barbara. He be- 
came a little child just as we are, Barbara, so 
he knows just how we feel ; and when he was 
grown to be a man, he went about doing good. 

“ He made sick people well, and sad people 
glad, and was kind to everybody. But that 
wasn’t enough to take us to heaven, Barbara, so 
at last he died for us. Because, you see, it was 
just as if there was a great door in heaven, that 
was shut, and we couldn’t get through it, we 
were so wicked ; but when he died, Barbara, he 
opened it wide. And now he has gone back 
there, and he keeps watch of us all the time ; he 
11 * 


126 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


never forgets to love and take care of us ; and J 
if we love and obey him, and pray to him to help i 
us, then when we die, he’ll take us right through j 
that open door, and we’ll be happy with him for- 
ever.” ' \ 

Barbara looked at her with sad, appealing eyes, 
when Gray ceased speaking. 

“ I like that,” she said. How do you pray ' " 
to him ? ” 

“ Don’t you know ' Our Father,’ Barbara ? ” 

“ No ; never heard of it.” 

Gray thought a minute. Here’s a prayer I 
say sometimes, Barbara,” she said ; and folding 
her hands, she repeated : 

“‘Jesus, I need thy strength, 

I am so frail and weak ; 

Oh, listen to my prayer. 

And grant the help I seek. 

“ ‘ I cannot stand alone, 

I cannot walk aright, 

Unless thou hold my hand 
And aid me with thy might. 

“ ‘ Oh, guard me with thine arm, 

In peril or in pain ; 

And when temptation tries, 

O Lord, do thou sustain. 

“ ‘ Help me in all things. Lord, 

Gentle and kind to be ; 

And let me grow each day 

More, and still more, like thee. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


127 


“‘Oh, make me patient, Lord,- 
Patient in daily cares; 

Keep me from thoughtless words 
That slip out unawares. 

“ ‘And help me, Lord, I pray, 

Still nearer thee to live ; 

And as I journey orr. 

More of thy presence give.’ ” 

Barbara listened, and when Gray stopped, 
tried to say it herself. Patiently Gray assisted, 
explaining as well as she could the meaning of 
the words, and repeating the lines, until Barbara 
could say the first verse perfectly. 

Through all their talk the children had been 
too much interested to pay any attention to what 
was passing around them; but now Barbara 
moved a little, and glancing up, Gray saw a gen- 
tleman standing at the foot of the cot, looking 
with kind, pleasant eyes upon them. 

Shyly Gray slipped down and drew back near 
the window, and, coming forward, the gentleman 
spoke a few kind words to Barbara. 

My sister, Mrs. Rockwell, who was here yes- 
terday,” he explained to Barbara, who nodded, 
told me about you ; and I came this afternoon 
to see and talk with you. But this little girl,” 
and he smiled at Gray, “ has told you all you 
need to hear to-day about our Saviour Jesus. 
Will you try to love and pray to him, Barbara?” 


128 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


Barbara nodded again. “ Yes,” she said, “ she’s 
going to teach me her prayer, and I’ll say it all 
the time. He’ll hear it sure if I do, won’t he ? ” 
she asked, looking at the gentleman with eyes 
that seemed suddenly to grow very doubtful. 

“ Yes, he always hears when his children 
speak to him. 'Will you try to be one of his 
children, Barbara ? ” 

Poor Barbara’s face brightened. “Yes; I’d 
like to belong to him. I never was nobody’s 
child yet. It’s drefful lonesome when you don’t 
belong to no one.” 

“ I know,” the gentleman answered, very 
kindly ; “ but when you feel lonesome again, 
you must remember that he is your friend, and 
will never forget you ; and then you must pray 
to him, and learn all you can about him.” 

“ I’m goin’ to learn,” Barbara said, with con- 
fidence. “ She,” and she pointed to Gray, 
“she’s going to send her teacher to tell me. 
Here’s your uncle coming for you now,” she 
said to Gray, as Mr. Oxford approached them. 

The stranger moved aside. “ I will come 
and see you soon again,” he said to Barbara, 
and, with another smile for Gray, he left them. 

“ Well, my little one, are you ready to go 
home?” Mr. Oxford asked, as he rested his 
hand on Gray’s head. And. with a low “ Yes, 
sir,” Gray turned to Barbara to say good-bye. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


129 


‘‘I will come again very soon, Barbara; 
mayn’t I, uncle?” and she looked at Mr. Ox- 
ford for confirmation of her promise. 

Yes, if you want to,” he said, as he took her 
hand. 

Barbara smiled a tired good-bye, and when 
they were fairly gone, lay peacefully back on 
her pillow, repeating her little prayer, and look- 
ing with tender eyes on the flowers beside her. 

That night, when Mrs. Corbett went to Gray’s 
bedside for the last good-night word and kiss, 
she told the sad story of Barbara’s ignorance 
and loneliness that had so grieved her own young 
heart. And Mrs. Corbett listened, and sympa- 
thized, and cheered her by promising that she 
would herself visit Barbara the next day. 

But the next day found Mrs. Corbett suffering 
with a severe headache ; and two or three days 
went by and found her still unable to go out, 
and it was with a very sober face that Gray stood 
by the window on Saturday morning and watched 
Mildred as she ran up the steps of the house. 

“What is it, dear?” Mildred asked, as she met 
her at the door, “you look as full of care as 
the old woman who lived in a shoe : what is the 
matter ? ” 

“I’m so disappointed,” Gray said, seriously. 

“About what, pray?” Mildred inquired, in 
a voice full of interest. 


130 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


^*Why I wanted to go to the hospital to see 
Barbara, but Mrs. Corbett is sick and cannot go, 
and so IVe got to stay home.” 

“ No, that doesn’t follow at all ; I’m going to 
the hospital this morning for the flower-mis- 
sion : suppose you go with me ?” 

No clouds ever vanished from the sky as 
quickly as they disappeared from Gray’s face at 
Mildred’s proposal. Full of gladness she ran 
to get ready, while Mildred waited for her in 
Mrs. Corbett’s room. 

“ Thee has a pleasant day for thy pretty work, 
Mildred,” Mrs. Corbett said, as from her sofa 
near the window she looked out on the budding 
trees and blue sky of the April morning. 

^‘Yes, it is pretty work, isn’t it?” Mildred 
answered, with bright decision. “ I don’t think 
I ever enjoyed doing anything so much in my 
life as I do distributing flowers. Every one is 
so glad to have them, and so grateful for them.” 

“ What does thee do beside give them, Mil- 
dred?” 

“ Nothing much ; I cannot preach, Mrs. Cor- 
bett. I let the flowers do that.” 

“And what do they say?” 

“I don’t know: I’ve never listened,” Mildred 
said, with a laugh ; “ but pretty things, no doubt, 
else they wouldn’t be flowers.” 

Mrs. Corbett smiled a little, but did not speak. 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


131 


and Mildred stood by the window tapping idly 
on one of the panes. Suddenly, in her quick, 
impulsive way, she turned, and going to Mrs. 
Corbett’s sofa, knelt down beside her. 

“ That is just one of the things that troubles 
me sometimes,” she said, softly. 

“That?” Mrs. Corbett repeated, rousing as if 
from some far-off reverie. “What does thee 
mean, my dear?” 

“ Why, just that — that I cannot preach — talk 
good to others, I mean. Do you think I ought, 
Mrs. Corbett?” 

Mrs. Corbett looked with gentle eyes on the 
bright young face beside her. “ No, my dear,” 
she said, “I don’t think thee is called upon to 
preach.” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know how, even if I ought,” 
Mildred answered ; “ but then, Mrs. Corbett, 
what does it mean — that verse about letting our 
light shine, you know?” 

“Just what it says, my dear, as the Bible gen- 
erally means. Let it shine; do nothing to 
darken nor hide it. And then — Mildred, does 
thee know what is one of the first laws for ves- 
sels sailing on waters common to all nations ? ” 

“No, what is it?” Mildred asked, in an in- 
terested voice. 

“ Show thy flag.” 

Mildred’s face flushed. “I know what you 


132 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


mean, Mrs. Corbett,” she said, after a little 
pause ; “ but how can I do it, especially if I do 
not talk?” 

“ There may come times, dear, when thee 
ought to talk. And when the time comes power 
will come with it if thee seeks it ; but the best 
way for thee to proclaim whose I am, and whom 
I serve, will be to let thy King proclaim it for 
thee.” 

“ How ? am I to do nothing ? ” 

“ Yes, thy part is to give thyself to him. See 
to it that thy heart is truly his, and then trust 
him to fulfil his own promise : * I will write my 
name upon thee.’ That writing, Mildred, the 
dimmest eyes can read and understand.” 

“ I’m ready. Cousin Mildred,” Gray said, as 
she came running into the room to bid Mrs. 
Corbett good-bye. 

Mildred started up. “ I will not forget,” she 
said, softly ; “ thank you, Mrs. Corbett.” 

Gayly Mildred and her little companion tripped 
through the streets that morning. The rooms 
of the flower mission were soon reached, and 
after a short call there, they turned towards the 
hospital. 

Notwithstanding the warm sunshine, and 
sweet, mild air, that swept in through the open 
windows, the morning had been a sad one in the 
children’s ward ; for a little girl, the victim of a 


IN THE HOSPITAL. 


133 


terrible street accident, had been brought in 
early, and the kind nurses had but just suc- 
ceeded in soothing her pains, and stilling her 
frantic cries, when up the long room, on her 
loving errand, came Mildred, with Gray beside 
her. 

In her fresh, spring dress, with violets in her 
belt, and her light basket, brimful with deli- 
cate leaves, and buds, and blossoms, on her 
arm, Mildred looked a very impersonation 
of spring herself As she passed from one 
little bed to another, speaking a kind word 
here, giving a bright smile there, and leaving in 
every little, outstretched hand, a tiny bunch of 
fragrant flowers, the pale little faces brightened, 
and the lonesome hearts grew glad and hopeful. 

Gray found her way to Barbara on first enter- 
ing the ward ; but she did not find her alone, 
for the gentleman she had seen on her previous 
visit sat by her side talking pleasantly to her. 

As Gray ran up, he recognized her with a 
smile and bow, and Barbara’s “Oh! I’m so glad 
to see you,’’ told how eagerly she had watched 
and waited for her coming. 

Quickly Gray explained why she had not been 
before ; and as Mildred approached, and with a 
smile laid a beautiful spike of white hyacinths 
on Barbara’s pillow, she said, with a child’s 
pride in claiming the relationship, “ That’s 
12 


134 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


my cousin Mildred, Barbara ; Mildred Hatha- 
way.” 

The gentleman, who was just turning to leave, 
glanced back curiously for a moment, but Mil- 
dred’s face was bent down towards Barbara, and 
she remained unconscious of his scrutiny. 

The pleasant morning soon passed. With her 
kind words of interest and hope, Mildred cheered 
and encouraged the poor girl so much that when 
they left, Barbara’s grateful words, “ I b’li’ve I’d 
soon get well if you’d come every day to see 
me,” were to Mildred rich compensation for a 
little self-denial and unselfishness. 

Gray made many more pleasant visits to the 
hospital during the next few weeks. Mrs. 
Corbett did not forget her promise ; as soon as 
she was able she sought out Barbara, and for 
many days, during Barbara’s long and tedious 
convalescence, her afternoon walks were to the 
hospital. Often she met there the gentleman 
Gray had met; sometimes there were other 
helpers. And thus, through all these influences, 
aided by the Spirit that helpeth our infirmities, 
Barbara was led, by slow but sure degrees, 
“ out of her poverty into Christ’s wealth.” And 
when, with restored health, she arose from her 
sick-bed, she arose also to a happier, truer life 
than she had ever known before ; and to a glad 
consciousness of a Father in heaven, who would 
never leave her nor forsake her. 


CHAPTER VII. 

SUMMER PLANS. 

“And evermore, beneath this outward sense, 

And through the common sequence of events, 

He felt the guiding hand of Providence.” 

— Whiitier. 

B rightly, with a warm, hazy splendor, 
fell the sunlight over the little seaside 
hamlet of Wyona, one lovely afternoon, in that 
most beautiful time of the year, when May is 
gliding onward into June. 

Out on the broad porch of an old-fashioned 
farm-house, a little child was playing. The air 
was cool, and sweet with the mingled scents of 
sea-breezes and spicy pine odors from the woods 
close by, but of all the inhabitants of the farm- 
house, the child was the only one who seemed 
to appreciate the beauty of the out-door world ; 
and she played peacefully on, until the click of 
the gate latch and the loud bark of a large 
Newfoundland dog disturbed the repose of her 
Eden. 


( 135 ) 


136 


ON THE WA V HOME. 


Frightened, and half a mind to cry, she looked 
up ; but the puckered, troubled little face grew 
smooth and glad with smiles,. as a pleasant voice 
said : 

“ Down, Bruno ! ” while two strong arms 
caught her up and held her high above the 
reach of the most savage Bruno. 

“All alone, maid Marion ?“ the pleasant voice 
asked. “ Where is mamma ? ” 

“ I dess her teeping tumwhere,” the little girl 
answered shyly. But the next moment the 
baby face dimpled with laughter, and two tiny 
arms went round the young man’s neck, while 
the little voice chirped : 

“Oh! Tuncle Tennie; I’se so glad to tee 
’ou.” 

“Tuncle Tennie’’ was glad too, if his kiss 
meant anything ; while gladdest of all seemed 
the lady who just then appeared in the open 
doorway. 

“Why, Kenneth, is it really you?’’ she said 
joyously; “did you drop from the sky?’’ 

“No; only 'from the ' afternoon train,” the 
young man answered playfully. 

“ Well, you are welcome ; as welcome as 
spring water when one is thirsty. And, oh I 
you dear old Kennie, I don’t believe you can 
begin to imagine how glad I am to see you 
again.” 


SUMMER FLANS. 


137 


“ Can’t I ? then, Margaret, I don’t believe you 
can imagine how glad I am to come home to 
such a greeting as this.” 

The lady stopped in her excited little dance 
around her brother, and laid her hand affection- 
ately on his arm. 

“ Then, Kenneth,” she said, very sweetly, but 
seriously, “ if you are so glad to come, won’t 
you promise to stay ? ” 

Her words were touched with a deeper mean- 
ing than appeared on the surface ; and so it was 
evident her brother understood. But his only 
answer was to stoop and kiss her tenderly once 
or twice — kisses that, while full of affection, still 
mutely denied her request. And so the lady 
read them, as, suppressing a sigh, she led him 
into the house. 

They were gathered in the cool porch again, 
after an early tea. Kenneth Boudinot, Mrs. 
Rockwell and her husband, and maid Marion, 
who, after long hesitation over the rival claims 
of father, mother, and uncle, had ended by giv- 
ing the preference to the latest comer, and 
was perched on Mr. Boudinot’s knee, nestling 
against his arm, with a look of blissful content- 
ment in her drowsy, baby eyes. 

Kennie,” Mrs. Rockwell said, as there came 
a momentary pause in the flow of conversation 
about home matters and friends, “ Kennie, did 
12 ^ 


138 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


you go to see that poor little waif I told you of, 
at the hospital ? ” 

“ Yes ; did I never write you, Margaret ? I 
have seen her a good many times.” 

“Is she still living? Is she likely to get 
well ? ” 

“ More than likely, I believe,” Mr. Boudinot 
said, with a smile. “ In fact, she is quite well 
now ; so well that in a few days she will be dis- 
charged from the hospital.” 

“And where will she go then ? ” 

Mr. Boudinot’s eyes roved slowly over the 
broad, beautiful landscape before him, and lin- 
gered on the western sky, still glowing with the 
sunset light, before he answered. 

“ I do not know, Margaret.” 

“ Who does know ? ” Mrs. Rockwell asked, in 
her pretty, impatient way ; has she any 
friends ? ” 

“ Not many, I am afraid. I have met a lovely 
little girl and her governess several times on my 
visits to her. I do not know of any other 
friends.” 

“A lovely little girl and her governess will 
prove of little practical assistance, I am afraid, 
when it comes to the matter-of-fact question of 
bread and butter,” Mr. Rockwell remarked. 

Mr. Boudinot smiled. “ In this case I imagine 
they could and would prove of great assistance. 


SUMMER PLANS. 


139 


if needed,” he said. “ But the great want is to 
find a suitable home for her somewhere away 
from the city, where body, mind, and soul can 
grow and develop healthfully arid naturally. 
Margaret,” and he turned with a sudden change 
of voice to his sister, “ why won’t you take her, 
to watch over maid Marion, now that her little 
feet are so ready to carry her in every direction 
but the right, and have such a perverse inclina- 
tion for climbing up and tumbling down all 
manner of inaccessible places.” 

Mrs. Rockwell’s pretty face expressed decided 
disapproval. 

“A little city outcast, Kenneth,” she said, dep- 
recatingly ; “ how can you think of such a 
thing? Marion is pure as a snow-flake, now, 
and I have no mind to sprinkle her with soot.” 

Mr. Boudinot looked down with a tender 
smile on the golden head resting on his arm. 

Even you can hardly be more anxious than 
I am, to keep this little one unspotted, Margaret,” 
he said, 'v^ith grave sweetness ; “ but I do not 
think poor Barbara could do her any harm, 
while the good you could do Barbara would be 
incalculable.” 

Mrs. Rockwell’s bright face still looked knotted 
and perplexed. 

“ It is unaccountable, Kennie,” she said, in a 
voice in which scolding and petting were oddly 


140 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


blended ; “ it is unaccountable why you cannot 
be content with being a missionary yourself, 
without trying to make every one belonging to 
you one too.” 

“ Is it unaccountable that one who is explor- 
ing a land where gold is to be had for the seek- 
ing, should wish his friends to share with him in 
its rich benefits ? ” Mr. Boudinot asked, gently. 

Mrs. Rockwell did not answer ; she was silent 
for a minute, and her foot beat quick time to her 
impatient thoughts : but soon her face cleared, 
and she turned to her husband. 

“ What do you say, Harry ? ” she said, with a 
smile; “shall we resolve ourselves into a couple 
of home missionaries, and take this little bar- 
barian to civilize ? ” 

Mr. Rockwell was looking at his child. 

“ I was just wondering,” he said, in a slow, 
deliberate voice, “ if every happy Christian 
mother in the land would try to reach and save 
one friendless, motherless girl, how soon the 
need for girl refuges and reform schools would 
cease ? ” 

The tears sprang to Mrs. Rockwell’s eyes. 

“ I think I am answered,” she said. “ Well, 
Kenneth, I will take the little girl, and do what 
I can for her. I only hope,” she added, in a 
brighter tone, “that the result won’t prove 
another example of love’s labor lost.” 


SUMMER ELAMS. 


141 


“ It will not be, if it is truly love’s labor,” Mr. 
Boudinot said, significantly. 

Two or three days after this, Mr. Oxford came 
home much earlier than usual, and, instead of 
stepping into his library, walked directly to the 
school-room. 

“ May I come in, Mrs. Corbett ? ” he asked, as 
in answer to his tap she came to the door. “ I 
should not presume to intrude, if I were not the 
bearer of what I hope you and your little pupil 
will consider very good news.” 

” Thee is always welcome, whenever thee is 
pleased to come, Mr. Oxford,” Mrs. Corbett an- 
swered, in her quiet voice. But Gray sprang up 
impulsively and ran to meet him. 

” Good news. Uncle Wallace,” she cried. “ Oh ! 
what is it ?” 

Mr. Oxford laughed, as he sat down and 
drew her to him. 

You are a perfect little Athenian,” he said; 
always anxious to hear or tell of some new 
thing. Well, now, whaf do you say to this ? I 
called at the hospital this morning, on my way 
down town, and while there a gentleman and 
lady came to see Barbara Munch, and take her 
away.” 

“Take her away!” cried Gray, in great ex- 
citement ; “ where to ? where has she gone ? ” 

“ Somewhere in the country ; I forget the 


142 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


name of the place ; in fact, now I think of it, I 
didn’t even hear it. But it’s all right ; for the 
gentleman was a young minister, a Mr. Bou- 
dinot, who said he had often met Mrs. Corbett 
and you at the hospital.” 

“ Yes ; I remember him,” Mrs. Corbett said 
gravely. “Has he taken Barbara, Mr. Oxford?” 

“ No ; but his sister has. She’s a pleasant 
woman. I liked them both very much, and it*s 
an excellent thing for the poor girl. She will 
have a good home, and be well brought up; it’s 
decidedly the best thing that could have hap- 
pened for her.” 

“And has she really gone ? Shan’t I ever see 
her again ? ” Gray asked, with more than half a 
mind to cry. 

, “ Yes ; she has really gone. They left the city 
this afternoon. But you need not look so sor- 
rowful about it, my little one. I have no doubt 
you will somewhere, at some time, run across 
her again. In this strange world of ups and 
downs, old friends often meet in places where 
they least expect, and in circumstances stranger 
than their strangest dreams. Is it not so, 
Mrs. Corbett?” and he looked thoughtfully 
at her. 

Mrs. Corbett did not answer. Her eyes were 
turned towards the window, and apparently she 
had not heard his question. 


SUMMER PLANS. 


143 


“ Is that all you have to tell us ?” Gray asked, 
breaking the pause that followed Mr. Oxford’s 
last words, and speaking in a grieved, disap- 
pointed voice. “ I don’t call it good news. 
Uncle Wallace ; it’s made my heart ache dread- 
fully to hear it.” 

“ Much you know about heart-aches,” Mr. 
Oxford said, with something like a sigh, as he 
kissed her. “Well” — speaking in a lighter tone 
— “ if that wasn’t good news, what will you call 
this ? Can Mrs. Corbett and you be ready to go 
to the sea-shore by the first of next week ? ” 

Gray clapped her hands ; while Mrs. Corbett 
looked around and said : 

“ So soon ; has thee found a place, Mr. Ox- 
ford ? ” 

“Yes, I think so; a very desirable place. I 
met an old acquaintance this morning, who is 
an excellent authority on summer resorts, for, 
like lightning, he never strikes the same place 
twice ; and consequently, in the course of twenty 
or thirty years, he has touched at a multitude of 
spots. He recommends this place so highly 
that I am quite disposed to try it.” 

“ Where is it ? ” 

“About seventy miles from the city. It is a 
quaint, out-of-the-way little nook, where the sea- 
winds are always cool and fresh, for the great 
Atlantic waves surge up on the whitest of sand- 


144 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


beaches j ust in front of the village. And behind, 
the ‘ forest primeval ’ still throws its shadows, 
and coaxes you to lose yourself in its depths.” 

“ Does thee mean for us to go to a hotel ? ” 
Mrs. Corbett asked, in a voice that, quiet as it 
was, still suggested the possibility of finding 
some objection to Mr. Oxford’s fine plans. 

“ To a hotel ? May all the good fairies that 
watched over Gray’s cradle forbid. No ; most 
decidedly. I am afraid I should let Gray’s roses 
blanch ” — and he playfully pinched her cheeks 
— “ until they were several shades nearer white 
than they are now, before I would consent to 
place her in that hot-bed of American civiliza- 
tion, a hotel. But fortunately, we need not think 
of such a thing ; for my friend has found a roomy 
cottage down there, furnished with every com- 
fort, and since his wife has been ordered to the 
mountains by her physician, he offers it to me. 
I will send Peter and Susan down a day or two 
before we go, and then we will only have to step 
in and make ourselves at home.” 

What place is it?” Gray asked ; “has it a 
name ? ” 

“Yes; it rejoices in the musical appellation 
of Wyona.” 

“What a funny name!” Gray said; and then, 
as if something was still wanting to complete her 
happiness, she asked : 


SUMMER FLANS. 


145 


** Won’t Cousin Mildred go with us ?” 

** I have been thinking of that,” Mr. Oxford 
answered. “ It would be a happy arrangement 
for us all, I think. Suppose you put on your 
hat — if Mrs. Corbett will excuse you — and we 
will go there now, and see what Mildred says 
to our plan ? ” 

Mildred was not at home when they arrived 
there, but would be soon, Raqhel told them, and 
leaving Gray to wait for her, Mr. Oxford went 
on to call on a business acquaintance. 

In a pleasant little tumult of excitement and 
importance. Gray waited. But she could not 
stay in the house, so with Rachel’s permission 
she went out into the sunny garden, where June 
roses and wistarias were dancing in the wind, 
and ran joyously up and down the gravelled 
walks, until at length, a little calmed by her 
exercise, she sat down on the stoop of the house 
to watch for Mildred. 

“ Hallo ! ” said some one, opening the door to 
come out, and almost stumbling over her; “ what 
little lady is this ? ” 

The little girl looked around. “ I’m Gray,” 
she said, with curious demureness. 

“You are? I should say you were pink, 
rose, or any other color that the flowers and 
butterflies love, rather than that. Well, little 
lady, what can I do for you ? ” 

13 K 


146 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ Nothing ; thank you,” Gray answered shyly. 
“ Fm waiting to see Cousin Mildred.” 

“And Mildred isn’t here. Suppose, while 
waiting for her, you come into the house and 
improve the time by getting acquainted with 
me.” 

But Gray did not stir. “ Fd rather stay here,” 
she said, in a slightly troubled voice. 

“ Then I shall have to stay here, too, and I 
don’t like sitting on a stone step half as well as 
I do on a sofa. I think you had better change 
your mind and come in.” 

“ But you were going out?” 

“ I was, yes ; Fm glad you put it in the past 
tense, for now Fm going in. Come, my little 
lady, you need not be afraid ; don’t you know 
who lam?” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Why, hasn’t Cousin Mildred ever told you 
of her big brother Robert ? Fm a cousin, too, 
you see. You won’t refuse to own me, will 
you?” 

Gray looked up into the pleasant laughing 
eyes bent down on her. There was no re- 
sisting their charm, and, timidly rising, she fol- 
lowed the young man into the house. 

“ Now, what shall we do to amuse ourselves 
until Mildred comes?” he asked. “ It’s no use 
watching for her. She’s like a clock, always 


SUMMER PLANS. 


147 


moves slowest when you want her to run fast. 
Did you ever play Graces ? ” 

No, sir.” 

“Then I’ll teach you to play them now.” 
And taking the pretty velvet-bound hoops and 
sticks from the wall where they hung, Robert 
proceeded to initiate Gray into the mysteries of 
the game. They were in the midst of a merry 
romp when Mildred came in. Gray gave an ex- 
cited little cry, and tossing her hoop, far beyond 
Robert’s extended arms, over the head of a dig- 
nified-looking bust of Washington, ran to meet 
her. 

“ Oh, Mildred,” she said, gladly, “ I’ve come 
to take you to the sea-shore.” 

“ Have you brought the magical flying car- 
pet with you?” Robert began; but Mildred 
stopped him. 

“ Never mind him, dear ; he is a tease,” she 
said. “ Sit down here by me, and tell me what 
you mean.” 

With radiant face Gray obeyed, and told her 
of the summer plan. 

“ It will be just the thing for you, Mildred,” 
Robert said. “ I’m greatly obliged to Uncle 
Wallace, and I say ‘ yes ’ to your going, with all 
my heart.” 

But Mildred hesitated, and when Mr. Oxford 
came he found her still undecided. 


148 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ I will give you a positive answer to-morrow/^ 
she said. And with that promise little Gray 
was very unwillingly obliged to go home. 

“ Rachel,” Mildred said that night, as she 
stood before her glass brushing out her long 
bright hair, while Rachel was moving about the 
room putting things in order before retiring, 
“ Rachel, do you think I have any right to take 
this pleasure Uncle Wallace offers me ? ” 

Dae I think sae ? ay. Miss Mildred, why 
not?” 

“ I hardly know myself,” Mildred answered, 
slowly. “ But you know, Rachel, I am always 
ready to indulge myself, and this summer I have 
planned to do some self-denying work. There 
are so many poor people, so many sick little 
children, who have to stay in the city during the 
warm weather, that I thought I would stay too, 
and visit among them, and help them all I 
could. That was why I joined the flower-mis- 
sion. And now, to leave it all and go off, just 
seeking my own pleasure and comfort. I’m afraid 
it isn’t right, Rachel : it seems selfish.” 

Rachel looked thoughtfully at the young girl. 

‘‘Whan our heavenly Father sen’s us'a sorrow, 
Miss Mildred,” she said, “ I dinna doot but he 
wushes us to be quiet an’ patient under it, an’ 
jist as surely, whan he gi’es us a pleasure, I ken 
he means for us to be gled an’ enjoy it.” 


SUMMER PLANS. 


149 


‘ Whatsoever he saith unto you do Mil- 
dred repeated ; “ Rachel, I have been thinking a 
great deal about those words lately. I have 
thought of a great many hard things he might 
say to me this summer, but I never thought of 
anything easy and pleasant as this.” 

“Yes,” Rachel said, “yes, we a’ mak’ that 
mistake, my bairn. We think too afen o’ our 
Faither in heaven, as o’ ae hard task-maister, 
makin’ our lives bitter wi’ hard bondage, an’ 
biddin’ us mak’ bricks withoot straw. It is God’s 
wull, we say, wi’ heavy sighs, whan troubles 
come, an’ hopes are disappointed, but hoo afen 
we forget that it is jist as much his wull, whan 
joys aboun’, and the hert’s fon’ wushes are 
saitisfeed. My bairn, yer heavenly Faither’s 
thouchts to ye are thouchts o’ peace, and love, 
his wull for ye is ful’ o’ sunbeams. Tak’ the 
guid he gi’es ye gledly, an’ honor him wi’ the 
confidence o’ a trustin’ bairn.” 

“Then you really think I ought to go?” Mil- 
dred still questioned. 

Rachel smiled. “Ye’re vera hard to con- 
veence. Miss Mildred. Ay, gang, dee ye think I 
want ye sick on my hans a’ simmer? Ye ’re na 
Strang eneuch to stan’ confeenment in the toon 
durin’ the warm weather. What dee ye think 
yer mither wad say to yer pale cheeks whan she 
comes hame ? ” 

13 ^ 


150 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


But all the work I have planned to do,” 
Mildred objected. 

“ It was wark o’ jus’ yer ain plannin,’ Miss 
Mildred, was it not ? Then it can wait. Dee 
ye mind what ye read me the ither nicht frae’ yer 
mither’s letter? ‘The tasks we set oursels, 
an’ the tasks that God in his lovin’ providence 
appints us, seem afen far apairt, an’ strangely 
unlike. But he wha’ chooses God’s way instead 
of his ain, an’ drops his ain wark to dee the 
Maister’s, wull fin’ in the end that he has maist 
surely an’ safely advanced in his ain way, maist 
perfectly an’ beautifully dune his ain wark. 
Gang to the seashore as yer friends wush, my 
bairn, an’ mind ye this — whaurever a Christian 
gangs, gin he carries a lovin’ hert an’ wullen 
han’ wi’ him, he wull fin’ wark for the Maistcr 
ready an’ waitin’ his cornin’.” 

That same afternoon, just as the sunset arrows 
were piercing the tops of the highest trees, Bar- 
bara Munch stood in the open door of the 
pleasant farm-house kitchen, looking off, over 
green fields of waving grain, to the dark, 
shadowy woods beyond. 

Where she stood she could hear the twitter- 
ing of birds in their leafy nests, while from the 
beach came the solemn hallelujah chorus of the 
unresting sea. 

“Is this the country true ?” the girl said to 


SUMMER PLANS. 


151 


herself. Oh ! I never knew it was so beauti- 
ful;” and in an ecstasy of joy, she clasped her 
hands, and gazed silently on the scene before 
her. 

A gentle step came up behind her ; and while 
a light hand rested kindly on her head, a pleas- 
ant voice asked : 

“ Do you like it here, Barbara?” 

“ Oh ! yes, ma’am.” 

** Then you think you will like to live here 
with me?” 

The girl looked up into Mrs. Rockwell’s face 
with happy eyes. 

** I think I’d like to live anywhere with you, 
ma’am,” she said; but here best of all.” 

“Then we are of the same mind, Barbara,” 
Mrs. Rockwell said, with a smile, “ for I like it 
here best of all, too. But come in, now; for I 
want to show you your room.” 

Poor, ignorant, untrained Barbara. It seemed 
to her as if she had suddenly been translated 
into a beautiful new world, whose wonders she 
had no words to describe. With a glad, grate- 
ful heart, she took the good offered her, and so 
began a happy life, in a Christian home, in which 
for many years she was to be both blessed and 
a blessing. 


CHAPTER VIIL 


IN THE COUNTRY. 

“ Their single aim the purpose to fulfil 
Of truth, from day to day, 

Simply obedient to its guiding will, _ 

They held their pilgrim way. 

Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old 
Were wasted on their sight. 

Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold 
All outward things aright.” — Whittier. 

I T was near sunset of a beautiful June day, 
when the shrill whistle of the engine pro- 
claimed the proximity of a station, the con- 
ductor’s loud voice shouted “ Wyona ; ” and the 
next instant the train halted at a little station, 
surrounded on every side by tall forest trees, 
and apparently miles away from all human hab- 
itations. 

“Is this the place?” Gray asked, as Mr. 
Oxford marshalled his little party on the plat- 
form. “ How queer it is! Where is the house 
where we are going to live ? ” 

“ How would you like to keep house with the 
( 152 ) 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


153 


robins, up there in that tree?” Mr. Oxford 
asked, pointing to where a robin red-breast 
could be seen hovering with outspread, motherly- 
wings over her leaf-shaded nest. 

Gray looked where he pointed. “I’d like 
almost anything,” she said, with a child’s happy 
laugh, “ only I’m afraid the robins don’t keep 
bread and butter in their house, and I’m very 
hungry.” 

“ Well, we will take possession of this con- 
veyance,” Mr. Oxford said, lifting Gray as he 
spoke into a large stage waiting close by, “ and 
try to find a house in which bread and butter 
are counted among the necessities of life.” 

Merrily they crowded in; Gray and Mrs. 
Corbett, Mildred and Mr. Oxford, and half a 
dozen other travellers, all burdened with shawl- 
straps, satchels, and baskets innumerable. 

“All right!” shouted the driver, as the last 
comer was safely jammed in ; and with a loud 
crack of the whip, and a plunge of the patient 
horses into the heavy sand of a country sea-side 
^road, they started. 

Eagerly Mildred and Gray scanned the country 
through which they passed. The road ran for 
quite a way through woods, where century-old 
oaks waved their gnarled shading boughs above 
them ; plumy ferns nodded to them from the 
road-side, and bright wild roses and fragrant 


154 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


honey-suckles peeped at them from many a 
tangled thicket. 

Outside the woods they trotted slowly over a 
rustic bridge, thrown across the bluest water 
they had ever seen, and in a few minutes more 
they halted before a low, roomy cottage, in 
whose open doorway they beheld Susan and 
Peter, who bade them kindly welcome. 

It was with the first dawn next morning that 
Mildred stepped, with Gray, out on the broad, 
vine-shaded piazza. It was still so early that 
the sleeping world was only just shaking off its 
dreams ; even the wind, as if but half awake, 
sighed softly, and only a little piping of leaf-hid 
birds disturbed the restful calm and quiet that 
reigned around, and seemed to say: 

“ Hush ! keep this morning undefiled.” 

With swift, light steps Mildred and Gray hur- 
ried down the lane that Peter had told them 
led to the beach, and climbed the low hills that 
shielded the coast. There they beheld the sun 
arise in all the glory of a^ perfect summer morn,’ 
and flood the world with light and color such 
as they had never seen before. On the shore 
the waves of the old Atlantic marched and 
countermarched, as if with measured tread to 
the harmonious noise of its mighty waters 
and thrilled their souls with silent awe and into 
worship still and solemn. 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


155 


With fascinated eyes the girls stood and gazed. 

‘^Aren’t you almost afraid, dear?” Mildred 
asked of Gray, who had never seen the sea before, 
whose little hand was closely clasping her own. 

“ It’s God’s great water,” she replied, in a 
tone of joyous confidence; ‘‘why should I be 
afraid ? ” 

God’s water ! As a bird, released from a cage, 
flies surely upward, so Mildred’s thoughts, at 
Gray’s simple words, soared heavenward ; far 
beyond all doubt and fear. It was God’s 
water, and she was God’s child, and “ held in the 
hollow of that hand ” there was naught to dread, 
and everything to hope. 

Strong in that confidence, with songs in her 
heart, and on her lips, she turned her face 
toward home. 

“Are you going back so soon ? ” Gray said, in 
a disappointed voice. 

“ Why, of course, little sea-bird. Have you 
lost all desire for the bread and butter you were 
so anxious for last night ? ” 

Gray turned unwillingly. “ Don’t go back 
the way we came,” she said, “ let’s find a new 
path.” 

Mildred laughed. “You must be a born ex- 
plorer, Gray,” she said, “ if you cannot enjoy 
going twice over the same road.” 

Nothing loath, she followed the little girl, as 


156 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


she left the lane, and turned off into a foot-path 
leading through a broad, level field on their 
right. 

“ I suppose all the paths converge in one at 
the end; country roads always do, they say,” 
Mildred said to herself, with some slight mis- 
givings as to the wisdom of their proceeding. 

But still the green lane they had first travelled 
seemed to run parallel with them, and dismissing 
all scruples, they gave themselves up to the 
sunny influences of the morning. Wild roses, 
daisies, and purple blossoming grasses were all 
around them ; and they wandered on through 
one clover-scented field into another, uncon- 
scious of the flight of time, in the exquisite de- 
light of being, as Gray said, in the real country, 
with a great, green world to walk over. 

Presently Mildred stopped. 

“ I would really like to know where we are,” 
she said, soberly ; “ we certainly ought to be 
home by this time. I am afraid Uncle Wallace 
will be seriously alarmed if we are not there 
when breakfast is ready.” 

Gray looked around. “ Where’s the lane ? ” 

Mildred’s eyes roved slowly over the broad, 
level landscape. They had lost the lane, and 
around them on every side, for some distance, 
spread the green, beautiful fields of a richly 
cultivated farm. 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


157 


We must go back as fast as we can,” she 
said, “ and try to get into the lane again, and find 
our way home.’’ 

“ There’s water down there,” Gray said, point- 
ing to the bottom of a field not far off, “ and there’s 
a house beyond it ; let’s go there. Cousin Mildred. 
Maybe there’s a bridge, and we’ll get home 
sooner than if we go back.” 

“ I don’t know,” Mildred said, with some hesi- 
tation ; “ I am afraid it will be very much like 
going in the direction of Dan, when we are 
bound for Beersheba, Gray. But never mind : 
we have got on an exploring expedition this 
morning, and if we make some discoveries now, 
we may be the happier for them all summer; so 
we will just run down to the water and see what’s 
there.” 

They had not quite approached the water’s 
edge, ere a furious barking startled them ; and 
bounding out of the water came a huge, black 
dog, shaking his wet, shaggy sides as he rushed 
towards them. At the same time a young man 
sprang out of a little boat that was floating near 
the shore, and of which he had been sole occu- 
pant. 

Be quiet, sir,” he said ; and the dog, much to 
Mildred’s relief, turned in prompt obedience at 
his master’s bidding. 

Oh ! I’m so frightened,” Gray said, as trem- 
14 


158 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


jDlingly she clung to Mildred. Cousin Mildred, 
what shall we do ?” 

Mildred put her arm kindly around her. 

“ Don’t be afraid ; we are quite safe now,” she 
said, cheerfully; “the dog won’t hurt us now, 
and I think we had better go back as fast as 
possible.” 

“ Pardon me,” the gentleman said just then, 
as he came to them. “ I am very sorry my dog 
disturbed you, but I assure you he is perfectly 
kind : he would never harm you.” 

With flushed and rather doubtful face, Mil- 
dred glanced at the speaker. But Gray, at the 
first sound of his voice, had looked up eagerly 
into his face, and now, as he paused, she threw 
off Mildred’s protecting arm and sprang towards 
him. 

“ Oh ! I’m so glad,” she cried, breathlessly ; 
“ where is Barbara ? ” 

With a look of great surprise, that changed 
instantly into a pleasant smile, the gentleman 
looked down at her. 

“Barbara is not far off,” he said, gently. 
“ Isn’t this the little lady I used to meet at the 
hospital ? I am very glad to see you again,” and 
he extended his hand. 

Gray gave him hers with all the confidence 
of a trusting child. “ I am glad, too,” she said, 
brightly. “ Can I see Barbara, now ? ” 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


159 


‘*rm afraid we haven’t time this morning, 
dear,” Mildred said, quickly. We must hurry 
home or they will all be frightened about us.” 

Gray looked up with a happy smile into Mil- 
dred’s troubled face. “ I don’t believe we are 
lost now,” she said ; “ and if we are, I think this 
gentleman will show us the way home.” 

He caught her words and turned to Mildred. 

“Are you lost ? ” he asked, pleasantly. “ Can 
I be of any assistance ? I shall be very happy to 
show you the way, if you will tell me where 
you wish to go.” 

“ Thank you,” Mildred said, with some hesi- 
tation ; “ I don’t know that we are really lost, 
but we left the beach-lane to walk across the 
fields, and I suppose our best course now will 
be to go back and find the lane again.” 

“ It will be a long walk and quite unneces- 
sary, I think,” he answered, with grave polite- 
ness. “ There are several roads that lead to the 
beach, and this, across the fields, is one : only it 
involves a row across the bay. If you will allow 
me to set you across in my boat, you will find 
yourself very near your home — if, as I suppose, 
you are our neighbors at the Wasps’ Nest.” 

“ The Wasps’ Nest,” Mildred repeated. “ Oh, 
no, we cannot possibly belong there. We only 
came last night to a lovely little cottage sur- 
rounded by tall oaks. I don’t know that it has 


160 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


any name. It certainly never could be called a 
Wasps’ Nest.” 

It is the same place, though,” the gentleman 
said, with a smile. It belongs to my brother- 
in-law, and is rented by him to summer tenants. 
And my sister named it the Wasps’ Nest, be- 
cause so much of the year wasps hold undis- 
puted possession of it.” 

“ It’s dreadfully suggestive of stings and 
smarts,” Mildred said, carelessly ; while at the 
same time she looked around her uncertain what 
she had better do. 

Only in name,” the gentleman said, as he 
drew his boat upon the white pebbly shore. 

You will find, I hope, that such wounds 
are healed there, not inflicted. Now will you 
give me the pleasure?” and he extended his 
hand to assist her into the boat. 

But will we not be putting you to a great 
deal of inconvenience?” Mildred asked, doubt- 
fully. 

“ None at all ; it is quite time I crossed over. 
The sun is growing very hot, and you will find 
this much the nearest and easiest way home. 
Come, little lady,” and he turned to Gray, will 
you let me lift you in ? ” 

Willingly the little girl took her seat in the 
boat, and, ashamed to hesitate or demur longer, 
Mildred followed. 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


161 


The boat was trim and graceful as a birch 
canoe, and beautifully clean. Several books 
lay in the stern, while an open portfolio 
showed that writing, as well as reading, had 
formed part of the morning’s occupation. 

Mildred noted all with curious eyes, while 
Gray chatted easily with the gentleman. > 

Did you know we were coming to live so 
near you ? ” she asked. 

He shook his head. ** No ; I only knew we 
were to have neighbors. I did not hear their 
names, and if I had heard, I am afraid I should 
have been none the wiser or happier. Barbara 
never introduced us to each other, you remem- 
ber. Don’t you think we might dispense with 
ceremony and introduce ourselves now?” 

Gray looked a little puzzled at this very polite 
speech. 

“Oh, do you mean tell our names?” she 
asked, in a moment. “ I used to have a differ- 
ent name, but now my name is Gray Hastings 
Oxford.” 

The young man took off his broad-brimmed 
summer hat, and made her a profound bow. 

“And mine is Kenneth Boudinot, at your ser- 
vice,” he said, with a smile. “ Miss Gray,” as 
the little boat touched the shore, “ I hope we 
may have a great many pleasant rows together 
this summer.” 

14 ^ 


L 


162 


ON THE WA V HOME, 


Gray laughed joyously. “ If you like to take 
me,” she said, with a sweet child-like modesty 
and truth, “I know I shall like to go very 
much.” 

“ I assure you I shall like very much to take 
you,” he said, with a smile, as he lifted her out, 
and then turned with a polite bow to assist 
Mildred. 

“ If you will wait a moment, while I secure 
my boat,” he said, pleasantly, “ I will show you 
the nearest way to your cottage.” 

Quietly as he offered his aid Mildred ac- 
cepted it ; and he led the way along a narrow 
footpath, ending at a gate that admitted them 
into a large, beautiful orchard. Quickly they 
passed through it, and through another gate, 
and then, to Mildred’s great joy, the “ Wasps’ 
Nest” stood before them, while Mrs. Corbett 
stood just outside the gate, looking anxiously 
about her. 

“Mildred! Mildred Hathaway!” she said, as 
she saw the truants, “ my dear child, where hast 
thee been ? ” 

“To the beach,” Mildred answered briefly, 
pushing back, as she spoke, the large seaside 
hat that, with its drooping brim, had completely 
shielded her face. 

For an instant, as he heard her name, Mr. 
Boudinot looked at her with more intere.st than 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


163 


he had hitherto shown, and then, with a smile, 
he said : 

“ You will have no more trouble in finding 
your way to and from the beach, I think; and if, 
at any time, you wish to cross the bay, my boat 
is at your service.” And with a pleasant “ Good- 
morning,” he turned to leave them. 

“ Oh 1 wait a minute,” Gray called. “ Mrs. 
Corbett, look ; don’t you^ know this gentleman ? 
His name is Mr. Boudinot.” 

“ I was just going to claim the privilege of an 
old friend,” Mrs. Corbett said cordially, as she 
extended her hand. “ Mr. Boudinot, it is an un- 
expected pleasure meeting thee here.” 

So it was to the young man, if the smile with 
which he responded to the lady’s greeting was 
a true exponent of his feelings. 

“ If thee wilt come with us to the house, Mr. 
Boudinot,” Mrs. Corbett said, “ Mr. Oxford 
will be pleased to renew his acquaintance with 
thee;” 

‘‘Another time I hope to give myself that 
pleasure; I really must not stay now,” Mr. 
Boudinot answered. And with a smile and bow 
he left them. 

“ Oh, dear,” Mildred said petulantly, as she 
walked with Mrs. Corbett to the house ; “ since 
you know that gentleman, why didn’t you intro- 
duce me ?” 


164 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Hasn’t thee had an introduction? Doesn’t 
thee know him?” Mrs. Corbett asked, in some 
surprise. “ Seeing thee together, my dear, I 
forgot that thee might possibly be strangers.” 

“ No,” Mildred answered to the first part of 
Mrs. Corbett’s speech. '‘It all happened just 
by chance ; and I do hate to have things happen 
so, one always feels so awkward.” 

Mrs. Corbett smiled. Mildred’s speech was 
not very coherent, but she understood her. 

“ Unexpected meetings are sometimes very 
awkward,” she said kindly; “but, my dear, I dis- 
like to hear thee speak of their happening by 
chance. Does thee not believe that even the 
smallest events of life are ordered 'for us ? Hast 
thee never read Spenser’s fine line, 

“‘It chanced, eternal God, that chance did guide? ’ ” 

Mildred’s clouded face grew bright with the 
illumination of to her a new thought. 

“ Only,” she said, as she waited on the piazza, 
while Gray ran into the dining-room to Mr. 
Oxford, “ only if there are no chances in our 
lives, Mrs. Corbett — if everything is ordered and 
appointed for us, and made to work towards 
some definite end and purpose — I wish we could 
see the end from the beginning, and know what 
all these random happenings, these checks and 
changes are meant to do for us.” 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


165 


Nay, nay ; do not wish that,” Mrs. Corbett 
said gravely. “ Let it be enough for thee that 
he knows. Let thine be the part of a loving 
child — to trust him where thou canst not 
trace.” 

“ Cousin Mildred,” Gray said that afternoon, 
as she ran out on the piazza, where Mildred sat 
in a high-backed, comfortable rocker, engaged 
in reading, “ Cousin Mildred, I want to go and 
see Barbara; will you go with me?” 

Mildred closed her book reluctantly, and 
rejoined, in an indifferent voice, “ I don’t know 
Barbara; where is Mrs. Corbett?” 

“Sick with headache. She says she’ll go 
with me to-morrow ; but it’s so long to wait till 
to-morrow, and I would like very much to go 
to-day,” and Gray looked pleadingly at Mil- 
dred. 

Mildred sat silent, debating the question. It 
was a very warm afternoon; the piazza was 
delightfully quiet and cool, and her book was 
interesting. She was very unwilling to lay it 
aside, and give up her own enjoyment for the 
sake of giving an hour’s pleasure to Gray. 

Without speaking, she opened her book again, 
meaning by that action to convince Gray that 
her request was unreasonable, and could not be 
granted. Carelessly she glanced at the verse 
that stood at the head of the page, and read : 


166 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone or despise ; 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace. 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes.” 

T 

A flush spread over Mildred’s face, and with 
a sigh for her own selfishness, she closed her 
book. 

“Yes, dear; I will go at once,” she said; and 
waiting only to get her garden hat, they started. 
Once more they walked through the orchard, 
and then through a pretty, winding walk, out 
upon a green, beautiful lawn, where Gray at once 
declared she saw Barbara playing with a little 
child. 

“ Run and speak to her, then,” Mildred said. 

Gray needed no second bidding, and the two 
children met with a mixture of shyness and 
gladness that amused and touched Mildred. 
She would not appear to notice them, and turned 
her attention to the wee, toddling thing, who 
stood looking at her with an expression of 
grave wonder in her baby eyes. 

“Will you tell me your name, little darling?” 
she asked, stooping down by the child. 

“ Dat me name,” the little thing responded ; 
“ dat what mamma tall me.” 

Mildred smiled at the success of her first 
question, and ventured again. 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


167 


Will you kiss me ? ” she asked, making the 
request that grown people, young and old, so 
often make, to the great indignation of the wee 
folks. 

“ Na, na,” the little lady said, with a very de- 
cided shake of her curly head ; “ me no tiss ’ou ; 
me tiss papa, mamma, an’ Tuncle Tennie.” 

“ Why, maid Marion,” said a sweet, laughing 
voice, “ how can you be so rude ? ” and with a 
blushing face, Mildred sprang up, and turning, 
faced Mr. Boudinot and a lady whom she knew 
at once was maid Marion’s mother. 

With easy grace the lady extended her hand. 

“ Miss Hathaway, is it not ? ” she said, with a 
smile; ‘^and I am Mrs. Rockwell. I was just 
coming to the Wasps’ Nest to call on you, but 
instead I am very glad to meet you here.” 

“And I am very sorry to prevent your call,” 
Mildred answered ; “ but I came with my little 
cousin ; her impatience to see Barbara was so 
great that she could not wait until to-morrow.” 

“ Impatience is a beautiful trait of character, 
sometimes, when it makes us run swiftly on 
errands of love,” Mrs. Rockwell said, brightly. 
“ Now, Miss Hathaway, since I am indebted to my 
brother for my knowledge of your name, will 
you allow me to pay my debt, by introducing 
him to you ? ” 

It seemed to Mildred, as she acknowledged 


168 


ON THE WA V HOME. 


the introduction, that she had never been more 
awkward and embarrassed. But Mrs. Rockwell 
and her brother were too truly at ease them- 
selves, and too kindly bent on giving her pleas- 
ure, for her long to feel like a stranger with 
them. 

“ I am not going to ask you, as the spider did 
the fly, to walk into my parlor. Miss Hathaway,” 
Mrs. Rockwell said with a smile, as they strolled 
over the lawn. “ Parlors are stupid places when 
such a sky as that is spread above our heads. 
Instead, I am going to ask you to come see my 
strawberries. Do you know you have come to 
this cool little hamlet just in time to find this 
delicious fruit at its perfection ? ” And chatting 
pleasantly, she led the way to a sunny, southern 
slope, where strawberries, such as Mildred had 
never seen before, were sweetening the air with 
their fragrance, and reddening the ground till it 
glowed with their beautiful color. 

“Oh! how delicious,” Mildred exclaimed; 
“ Mrs. Rockwell, what do you do with so 
many ? ” 

“ If you will sit down with me under these 
trees,” Mrs. Rockwell answered, as she walked 
to a clump of grand old oaks near by, “you 
shall soon know what I do with a great many of 
them.” 

The trees were very old and large, and several 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


169 


rustic seats and a rude table were standing- 

o 

under their wide spreading branches. 

“ This is our tea-room,” Mrs. Rockwell said, 
as she invited Mildred to sit down ; “ there are 
few beautiful summer evenings that do not find 
us picnicing here. Now, Miss Hathaway, I don’t 
exactly ^ Rub the ring — the genie comes,’ but I 
blow my whistle ” — and she raised a tiny one to 
her lips — “ and you shall see what answers.” 

The silvery, bird-like call echoed across the 
lawn, and in a second a small boy sprang like a 
squirrel over the fence near the house, and came 
hopping and jumping to them. 

“ He’s a queer little waif,” Mrs. Rockwell said, 
as they watched him ; “ Kenneth picked him up 
in the city a day or two ago, and brought him 
here to pick strawberries and grow civilized, he 
says. He may do the first, but I own I am 
doubtful about the second.” 

He was a bright-faced little colored boy, 
with dancing black eyes, that seemed con- 
stantly on the watch for mischief, and a very 
sober mouth, that looked as if its chief employ- 
ment hitherto had been to deny what the eyes 
declared. A tattered, straw hat, with ragged 
brim, crowned his head ; and as he stopped be- 
fore them, he gave it an odd little jerk, that he 
meant for a bow, and pulled desperately at a 
knot of curly wool growing on his forehead. 

15 


170 


ON THE IVAY HOME. 


“ Heres I be, missis,” he said, hopping first 
on one foot and then on the other, as if motion 
was as necessary to his existence as breathing. 

“Yes, so I see. Well, Crusoe, do you 
think you can take that basket ” — and Mrs. 
Rockwell pointed to a small willow one hang- 
ing on a low branch — “ and fill it for me with 
berries ? ” 

“ La, yaas, missis, in jes no time,” and catch- 
ing the basket Mr. Boudinot tossed him, the 
boy bounded off. 

It seemed to Mildred truly no time before he 
was back with his basket heaped high with the 
tempting fruit. Breaking off some of the largest 
and broadest leaves, Mr. Boudinot folded them 
together and filled them for his sister and Mil- 
dred. Sugar they did not need, for the sweet- 
ness of the warm June air and sunshine had all 
been caught and imprisoned in the hearts of the 
luscious berries. 

The sun was sinking slowly in the west 
before Mildred rose to go home, after an hour 
spent in pleasant converse with her new-found 
friend. 

“ I hope I shall see you in my tea-room 
many times this summer,” Mrs. Rockwell said. 
“ By the way, how do you like it ? ” 

Slowly Mildred’s eyes roved over the fresh, 
beautiful scene before her. 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


171 


I think it very lovely,” she said with anima- 
tion. “ Eden has not been entirely lost. I am 
sure you have a little of it enclosed here.” 

“ Yes, so I sometimes think,” Mr. Boudinot 
said. In fact, in every true life, I believe 
Eden-like hours do sometimes come, and in 
every happy Christian home there is a joy and 
peace that helps us to at least imagine some- 
thing of what Eden in its sinless loveliness 
must have been.” 

‘‘Ah ! ” Mrs. Rockwell said, with the first tinge 
of sadness Mildred had noticed in her; “if only 
you would be content to remain in Eden, 
Kennie.” 

“ Eden would scarcely seem Eden long, I am 
afraid, if we sat down in slothful ease and for- 
got the claims of duty,” Mr. Boudinot an- 
swered gently. “ Miss Hathaway, it seems too 
bad to disturb those little people ; ” and he 
pointed to where the children were busy 
as robins among the strawberries : “ must you 
really go ? ” 

Yes, Mildred was resolute : she really must ; 
and leaving Mrs. Rockwell at her door, Mr. 
Boudinot walked with her through the orchard, 
while Gray, with Barbara and maid Marion, 
ran on ahead. 

“ Do you know, Miss Hathaway,” Mr. Boudi- 
not said, as they heard the children’s glad 


172 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


voices, you have given a great pleasure and 
shown a real kindness to poor little Barbara by 
bringing your cousin to see her. She could 
have made the first visit herself, but in her shy- 
ness she shrank from doing so, and your com- 
ing has made her as happy as a queen.” 

Mildred winced a little as she listened to Mr. 
Boudinot’s approving words, and she was too 
honest to appropriate them. 

“ I am glad now that I came,” she said, but 
at first I didn’t want to. I don’t think it is the 
easiest thing always to be willing, at the expense 
of self, to show kindness, and give pleasure 
to others, Mr. Boudinot.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” he asked, with a smile. ‘‘ Con- 
sidering that you are only mortal. Miss Hatha- 
way, that is not surprising.” Then more seri- 
ously he added : I suppose only those who 
walk very close to the Master ever know the ful- 
ness of joy that there is in self-denial and self- 
sacrifice.” 

“ I am sure self-sacrifice does not seem a 
joyous thing to me,” Mildred answered. 

” No, perhaps not,” he said, as he opened the 
gate for her ; “but I am sure selfishness does 
not seem joyous to you either.” 

Mildred would not for a moment seek to 
seem better than she was. 

“ No, it does not.” she said, “but there is no 


IN THE COUNTRY. 


173 


merit in that, for I’d dearly love to be selfish if 
I only dared to be.” 

And having made what she felt was a very 
dreadful confession, Mildred abruptly wished 
Mr. Boudinot good-evening and hurried on 
alone to the house. 

15 * 


CHAPTER IX. 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


“ It is good for us to think no grace or blessing truly ours, 
until we are aware that God has blessed some one else with it 
through us .” — Philips Brooks. 



WO days more of lovely summer weather, 


1 - in which they rode, and walked, and rested, 
went swiftly by ; and .then a Sabbath morning, 
as fair and sweet as if it were a new world and 
this its first Sabbath, dawned upon them. 

“ Is there a church anywhere in this vicin- 
ity, I wonder ? ” Mr. Oxford .said, at breakfast. 
“ Mildred, in your walks have you seen anything 
that looked like a church spire ? ” 

“No. Nothing but the trees, Uncle Wal- 
lace,” Mildred answered. 

Mr. Oxford smiled. “ Is country living mak- 
ing you poetical, Mildred ? ” he asked. 

“ I don’t know,” Mildred answered, demurely. 
“ I don’t feel equal to much beyond quotations 
yet.” 

“ So I perceive. You needn’t explain further, 


(174) 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


175 


my dear. ‘The groves were God’s first temples.’ 
It is easy to trace your words to their 
source. But I think to-day, as Christians, we 
would all like to find some temple that man 
himself has erected to his Creator’s praise. I 
don’t believe in the Christian who goes into the 
country for the summer, and forgets the fourth 
commandment.” 

“ Perhaps I have walked farther than Mil- 
dred,” Mrs. Corbett said, looking up with her 
gentle smile. “Any way I found out yesterday 
that there is a little chapel just beyond the 
bridge, and service is held there at the usual 
hours morning and evening.” 

“ Thank you,” Mr. Oxford replied, with the 
grave and rather formal courtesy with which 
he always treated Mrs. Ct)rbett. “ If there is a 
chapel and chapel service, there is no excuse 
for not attending. You will all go, of 
course ? ” And he looked inquiringly around 
the table. 

“ There is a sabbath-school in the morning, 
before church,” Mrs. Corbett said quietly. 
“ Mildred, wilt thee and Gray go then with 
me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. I’ll go,” Gray said quickly. And 
Mildred, after a moment’s silence, said soberly : 
“ I’ll think about it.” 

“Very well,” Mr. Oxford said, “I’ll join you 


176 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


at the church door after the school,” and rising 
he left the room, followed by Gray, and strolled 
out to his favorite seat on the piazza. 

The two ladies lingered at the table, eating 
toast and sipping coffee, in the leisurely way of 
people who have little to do and plenty of 
time. 

“What is it, my dear?” Mrs. Corbett said, 
after watching Mildred’s sober, abstracted Yace 
for a few moments. “ Thee seems very thought- 
ful : does anything trouble thee ? ” 

“ No — ^yes,” Mildred answered. “ Mrs. Cor- 
bett, will it be very wrong for me to stay 
away from church to-day ? I have my Bible, 
and some lovely religious poems. And if I 
want a sermon, there is that one by Dr. Bush- 
nell — ‘ I have girded thee, though thou hast not 
known me ’ — that Uncle Wallace yesterday told 
me he wanted me to read. I cannot see that 
there would be any harm in my staying at home 
and reading them under the trees.” 

There was a pained expression in Mrs. 
Corbett’s eyes as she looked at the young 
girl; but her voice was calm and sweet as she 
said : 

“ If thee hadst no misgivings, my dear — if thee 
really could not see any harm in it — would thee 
ask my opinion ?” 

Mildred colored a little at the plain question. 


SABBA-TH INFLUENCES. 


177 


I cannot see what harm there would be,” 
she said again. “ Under those grand old oaks, 
with everything pure and sweet around me, I 
know I should feel nearer heaven than in a close, 
hot church, listening to a dry, prosy sermon. I 
don’t think much of sermons anyway,” she 
added, with some warmth. 

“ It seems to me,” said a voice in the open 
window, ” that in your present mood, Mildred, 
you would not feel very near heaven anywhere.” 
It was Mr. Oxford who spoke. But he only 
darkened the window for an instant, and then 
walked away with Gray, leaving the ladies to 
their discussion. 

Mrs. Corbett looked thoughtfully at the young 
girl. Full of noble, generous impulses she knew 
she was. Full, too, of earnest, sincere desires to 
do her duty, and live a Christian life. And yet, 
at the same time, self-willed and ease-loving; 
and of a nature only too prone to indulge itself 
to-day, while it sought to satisfy conscience by 
making promises and good resolutions for to- 
morrow. She knew that Mildred was at war 
with her better self just then, and she must say 
something, but what? She was silent for a 
minute : then she said : 

“ The best definition of a good sermon is a 
help, I think. Do you never feel the need of 


178 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


such help, Mildred, that you despise sermons so 
much ?” 

“ Help? why, yes, of course, I feel the need 
of help often. But I want it to come in some 
other way. I don’t want to be preached at. 
Some sermons try my patience dreadfully,” she 
added, in the tone of one trying to excuse her- 
self. 

Mrs. Corbett’s grave face brightened. 

“ If that is true, then, without doubt, thee is 
in a good school while thee listens to them,” she 
said. “ Does thee remember quaint old Her- 
bert’s lines on this very subject: 

* The worst speak something good ; if all want sense, 

God takes a text and preacheth patience.’ 

“ If thee is not benefited intellectually, nor 
helped spiritually by what thee hears, still the 
time is not lost that gives thee an opportunity 
to exercise Christian courtesy, charity and 
patience. And, my dear, thee hast been much 
more unfortunate than I, if thee hast ever heard 
a sermon so poor, that thee could not find in it 
some word or thought to cheer, or elevate, or 
encourage thee — some suggested, if not spoken 
truth, the memory of which would make thee 
richer through all thy life.” 

“ That may be,” Mildred said. But still she 
hesitated. “A man’s sermons can never be as 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


179 


good as the simple Bible words, Mrs. Corbett ; 
and I have my Bible : why cannot I stay at home 
and read it without the trouble of going to 
church this warm day ? ” 

Mrs. Corbett’s voice was a little graver than 
Mildred had ever heard it before as she said : 

“ Yes, thee hast thy Bible, but thee hast read it 
to little purpose I fear, my child, else thee would 
never ask me such a question.” 

Mildred’s face flushed. “The Bible doesn’t 
say anything about church-going,” she insisted ; 
“ churches and sermons are modern institu- 
tions.” 

“Are they ? well, my dear, we need not dis- 
cuss that question. I think there are a good 
many commands in the Bible that do touch 
directly on this very subject of church-going, 
but we will pass them by. Thee wilt, I am sure, 
agree with me, that whatever else may, or may 
not, be in the Bible, two earnest, emphatic, oft- 
repeated commands are found there, that no 
Christian can ignore or disobey. One is to 
honor his Master, the other is to follow him.” 

“ Yes,” Mildred said, while she looked doubt- 
fully at Mrs. Corbett. 

“Wilt thee tell me, if thee canst, Mildred, how 
much a Christian honors his Master, who con- 
siders his own selfish ease rather than his glory, 
and refusing to be numbered with the people of 


180 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


God, in the house dedicated to his service, goes 
out to luxuriate in poetic fancies and pleasant j 
dreams on the beach or under the trees ? Is 
that the honor that will be accepted and hon- 
ored in return, dost thee think, my dear?” 

Mildred’s face was sober but not satisfied. 

“ Christ himself loved the mountains, and the 
trees, and the sea,” she said; “and he must 
often have felt nearer God when alone with i 

I 

them, than when with men. Why should it be \ 

wrong for us to do so too ? And if we feel so, ' 

why is it not right for us to indulge it?” 

“ If thee wilt take thy Testament, my dear, j 

and study thy Saviour’s life, thee wilt find that i 

throughout that life — full as it was of toilsome, ] 

unselfish ministration to others — however much ? 

the wearied body might have craved rest, no j 

Sabbath morning dawned that did not find him, j 

so far as we know, in the synagogue or temple, | 

hearing or teaching the law. Can man’s unin- j 

spired words ever seem plainer or duller to you, .J 

Mildred, than they might have seemed to him, J 

the great Author of all eloquence and inspira- j 

tion? But in his beautiful humility no service, | 

designed to honor and glorify his Father, was 
ever to him tiresome. No word, however plain, 
that breathed of love to God and to mankind, to 
him common or tedious. And he left us an ex- 
ample that we should follow his steps,” 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


181 


There were tears in Mildred’s eyes when Mrs. 
Corbett ceased. “ I am very selfish,” she said, 
humbly, ” but I will try to think less of my own 
pleasure, and more of doing his will.” And 
stopping, as she left the table, she bent down by 
Mrs. Corbett and gratefully kissed her. 

The walk to the little chapel was a pleasant one ; 
shaded most of the way by tall old oaks, and 
cooled by the fresh winds that came to them from 
across the blue waters of the then slightly ruffled 
bay. The school was assembled when they en- 
tered the chapel, and to Mildred’s great surprise 
Mr. Boudinot conducted the opening exercises. 
As soon as they were over he came to them. His 
greeting was a very quiet one, and waiting only 
to explain that he was acting that morning in 
the place of the superintendent, who was de- 
tained at home by sickness, he invited Mrs. Cor- 
bett to take charge of a class of young ladies, 
whose teacher would probably be absent for 
several weeks ; and then smilingly asked Gray 
if she would like to go in Mrs. Rockwell’s class 
of little girls. 

Receiving affirmative answers from both, he 
led them to their places, and then returned to 
Mildred. 

She had hot seen him since her confession of 
selfishness, and her cheeks flushed painfully as 
he spoke to her. • 

16 


182 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Miss Hathaway,” he said, “ I have a class 
of little negro boys, very ignorant and untrained, 
for whom I want a teacher. Will you take 
charge of them this morning?” 

Poor Mildred; all that morning, since her 
talk with Mrs. Corbett, she had been making 
good resolutions for the future, and planning 
what she would do to prove her sincerity and 
unselfish devotion to the Master she professed 
to follow. 

They were beautiful resolves ; but marred by 
one sad mistake. In all her dreams and aspira- 
tions, Mildred forgot the near and lowly duties 
waiting close at hand, and reached forward for 
great and lofty ones, to which she would never 
come, and for which she had no fitness. 

Like the “ little foxes that spoil the grapes,” 
the little duties, and efforts, and toils of life were 
always to Mildred too small and insignificant to 
be noticed ; or, if noticed, too distasteful to be 
cheerfully performed. 

If Mr. Boudinot had asked her to do some 
great thing, that would have left her on the 
mount of self-sacrifice, where she had just been 
imagining herself, Mildred would have joyfully 
consented. But to teach a class of little negro 
boys, in a strange Sunday-school, when she had 
never done such a thing before; — “Oh, dear!” — 
the girl’s face changed^ and she said impulsively. 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


183 


" Oh ! I cannot. I have never taught. I’ve 
always been a scholar. Please put me in a 
class.” 

“ I will, certainly, if you insist,” Mr. Boudinot 
answered gravely. “ But you have always been 
taught, and these poor little waifs never. Miss 
Hathaway, won’t you put your teaching to use 
to-day ? Out of your abundance, will you not 
give to their want and ignorance ? ” 

Mildred looked down, with a troubled, dissat- 
isfied face. 

‘‘I do not know how to do it,” she objected. 

I cannot think of a word to tell them.” 

Mr. Boudinot’s eyes rested a moment on the 
Bible in her hand. 

‘‘A Sunday-school scholar with the Bible in 
her hand can never be at a loss for words in 
which to tell the story of the cross,” he said. 
The words were grave, but the smile that fol- 
lowed them was kind and encouraging. 

Mildred’s fingers played nervously with the 
pages of her Bible ; unconsciously she opened it 
at the fly-leaf, where her name was written. 
Her watchword was written there too, and im- 
mediately under it the additional words of tender 
warning and high incentive : “ For even Christ 
pleased not himself” For the second time that 
morning the girl’s eyes grew dim. 

‘‘ I am very sorry,” she murmured ; and with 


184 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


a humble face, she looked up at Mr. Boudinot. 
‘‘ I will do the best I can,” she said simply, and 
without more words followed him to her class. 

Three bright-eyed, dark-faced little boys 
looked curiously at her as she took her seat; 
and in the brightest and darkest of the three 
Mildred recognized her acquaintance of three 
days before — Crusoe. 

The scene was evidently a very strange and 
novel one to him. The other two boys showed 
by their behavior that they at least knew what a 
Sunday-school was, but to Crusoe it was a new 
world, and his black eyes looked around him 
with an odd, intent expression, as if seeking not 
only to understand what he was there for, but 
also what new mischief he could find to do in a 
world with which mischief seemed to have so 
little in common. 

“ Dis mighty queer place, missis,” he said 
confidentially to Mildred, whom he knew at 
once. “ Tears to me ’taint half so nice as down 
dere wid de strawberries.” 

Mildred started a little. Crusoe was but 
echoing her own thoughts that morning, and, 
poor little heathen though he was, there seemed 
to her at that moment but little difference be- 
tween them after all. 

“You must not talk now, Crusoe,” she said 
gently ; “ you must be quiet and listen to me.” 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


185 


“ Yaas, missis, me be quiet; jes as quiet as de 
weasel when ole fox is lookin’ on ’im.” And 
with this striking illustration of what he thought 
of their respective positions, Crusoe looked 
soberly at the two other boys, straightened him- 
self up, and placing his hands behind him, fas- 
tened his eyes on Mildred’s face. 

What should she teach them ? Mildred’s old 
catechism lessons occurred to her, and she 
thought she would begin with them. 

Very soberly she began with the question so 
familiar to all children in Christian homes, 
“ Who made you ? ” 

The boy at the head of the class had had 
some instruction, and answered correctly. Then 
came the second question, “ Of what were you 
made ? ” 

The second boy did not know, but Crusoe, 
watching and listening with great interest, was 
ready and quick with his answer. 

“La, missis, I know dat; mission man tole 
dat once when he came roun’.” 

“ Well, what did he tell you ? ’’ Mildred asked, 
for Crusoe had stopped, as if he considered his 
knowledge too indifferent to be worth repeating. 

“ La, missis, dirt. Knowed he said dirt,’’ he 
repeated, as his keen eyes read in Mildred’s face 
that his answer was not satisfactory, “an’, missis, 
if we’s made of dirt, don’ see no sort of use in 
16 '^ 


186 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


tryin’ to wash it off ; dis nig don’ nohow.” And 
again Crusoe’s face looked very serious, while 
his right arm was extended along the back of 
the seat, as if it felt tired and needed rest. 

The next moment, before Mildred had de- 
cided what to say, or how to say it, there came 
a jump and suppressed scream from the head* 
boy. 

What was the matter? Mildred bent for- 
ward to investigate. 

“ He — he stuck me with a pin,”' the boy said, 
darting wrathful glances at Crusoe, and showing, 
at the same time, a skilfully bent pin. 

Crusoe opened his eyes wide with an expres- 
sion of injured, lamb-like innocence. 

“ Never did no such ting no how,” he asserted. 
“ Dat nig dere,. he done it his own self, knowed 
he did, missis, ’cause I seed ’im.” 

Be quiet,” Mildred said, sternly. You are 
disturbing the whole school ; come and stand 
here by me, Crusoe. I can’t let you sit down 
again, until I can trust you to be a good boy.” 

“ La, missis, might jes as well set down ; dese 
seats don’ cost nothin’,” Crusoe said, as he obeyed 
her, and took his stand by her side. 

Mildred’s perplexity was very great. The 
boys were so restless and mischievous that they 
needed constant watching to prevent their am 
noying all the classes near them ; and then, in 


La, missis, might jes as well sit down ; dese seats don’ cost nothin’.” p. i86. 






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SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


187 


addition, they were so ignorant, that it seemed 
to her impossible to tell them anything they 
would remember or understand. She would not 
return to the catechism again ; she would try 
them with Bible stories — the dear old Bible 
stories she had herself loved so well when a 
child. But what one ? She could not decide. 
She felt weak and helpless, and utterly unfit for 
the work that had been laid upon her. With 
imploring eyes, she glanced toward the desk 
where Mr. Boudinot was standing, and, as for 
one second he looked at her, it seemed to Mil- 
dred that he understood her trouble. But he 
turned away instantly. He would not come to 
her help, that was plain. In the confusion 
caused by Crusoe’s misconduct, her Bible had 
dropped open in her, lap, and as she bent to 
close it, her anxious eyes read : “ We have here 
but five loaves and two fishes. He said, Bring 
them hither to me.” 

Very sweet, and rich, and full of a gracious as- 
surance, that the little should prove enough, 
seemed those words to the young girl, who was 
just then so painfully conscious of her own in- 
sufficiency; and who needed the gentle reminder 
that the least gift brought to Him, and touched 
by Him in blessing, might become a mighty 
power for good, feeding and enriching the hearts 
and lives of a multitude. 


188 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


Animated with fresh courage, she looked 
again at her class. 

“ Were you ever hungry, boys ? ” she asked, 
pleasantly. 

They were on home ground now, and appre- 
ciated her question ; and eagerly, and much as 
if they hoped she had refreshment for them 
then and there, they assured her they were often 
hungry, very hungry. 

“Then you can understand the story I am 
going to tell you. I want you to pay attention, 
and try to remember it.” 

Yes, they would do that, they promised her, 
and the three dark little faces looked earnestly 
at her, while they quietly waited for what was 
to follow. 

“ Once, long ago,” Mildred began, speaking in 
a slow, sweet voice, “ there was some one very 
good and kind, who went with twelve men whom 
he was teaching, into a desert place, away from 
all the great cities or pleasant villages, to rest 
a while ; for he had been teaching the well peo- 
ple, and curing the sick people, until now he 
was very tired, and wanted to be alone with his 
twelve friends for a little time, to think, and pray, 
and get new strength for the new work he would 
find to do next day. He had been too kind and 
good for the people to let him go from them ; 
and so when they missed him in the streets of 


SABBAT// /NFLUENCES. 


189 


their cities, they followed him on foot, and com- 
ing to him, in that lonely, desert place, stayed 
with him three days ; while he taught them, and 
cured them, and helped them in so many ways, 
that I suppose they did not mind being tired or 
hungry, if only they could be with him. 

“ When the third day came, and the sun was 
high in the heavens — perhaps going down to- 
wards the west and showing that it would soon 
be night again — Jesus — for that was his name — 
looked around over the great multitude of tired 
men, and women, and little children, and his heart 
was full of pity for them ; for they had been with 
him three days with nothing to eat. And now 
what do you suppose he did ? ” And Mildred 
looked questioningly at her head boy. 

“ Sent them home, I guess,” he said seriously. 

“Ah ! that was just what his disciples, the 
twelve friends who were with him, wanted : but 
he was too kind, and loved the poor people too 
well to do that; /or he knew if he sent them 
home without food, they might faint on the way. 
He did something better than that.” 

The boys were now all interested and 
thoughtful. 

“ Had he anything to eat himself?” asked one 
of them. 

“ No. Only five small loaves of bread and 
two fishes were found.” 


190 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Ki ! Dat wasn’t much for so many,” Cru- 
soe ejaculated. And once again Mildred was 
reminded how much alike human nature was in 
every age of the world. 

“ No, not much in a man’s hands,” she said, 
“ but here was one greater than a man — some 
one who with a little could do a good deal. 
And so he told his disciples to bring him the 
basket with the loaves and fishes; and then he 
told them to go among the people and make 
them sit down in little bands on the green 
grass, with which the beautiful hillside was 
covered. 

“ So they sat down, as they were bid, and when 
all were quiet, Jesus took the loaves and fishes, 
and looked up to heaven and blessed them. 
Then he broke them in pieces, and gave them to 
his disciples, and the disciples gave them to the 
people, until in all that great company there was 
not one left hungry : not one who had not eaten 
enough ; not one who was not satisfied.” 

Mildred paused a moment : for in teaching 
others she was being taught herself ; and a 
sense of the fulness and inexhaustibleness of 
Christ’s love and power was coming home to 
her, as it had never done before. 

The boys waited silently, impressed with the 
wonderfulness of the story, and still more with 
the gentle seriousness of their young teacher. 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


191 


Crusoe,” she said, turning to the boy, who 
had been standing beside her and watching with 
fascinated eyes every changing expression of 
her face, “ Crusoe, tell me what would you 
have done, if you had been there that day, and 
been so kindly treated, arid after that been told 
to go home.” 

“ Dey wouldn't hab sent dis boy home, 
missis,” he said, with emphasis. “ I’d hab stayed 
right on alius.” 

“ But suppose the Master, who had been so 
kind, had left you, Crusoe, just as he did those 
people ; gone away, when you were not watch- 
ing, and you didn’t know where to find him : 
what then ? ” 

Crusoe’s black eyes were intense in their in- 
terest and excitement. 

** I ? I’d track him, missis ; I’d go to de end 
of de earth to fin’ him. Is him to be foun’ now, 
anyhow?” he asked, suddenly. 

Mildred’s heart gave a great bound at that 
question. ” Yes,” she said, “ he is to be found, 
Crusoe; you can find him to-day just as those 
people did so long ago. Shall I tell you how?’* 

The boy did not speak, only nodded his head, 
and looked in the same intent manner. 

“ He is not on earth as he was then,” Mil- 
dred went on ; “ he has gone back to heaven. 
He came down to this world, and lived here to 


i92 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


help and save us, and now that he has gone 
away to heaven, he is still our helper and Sav- 
iour. And, Crusoe, if you want to find and fol- 
low him you must begin right here : by trying 
to be a good boy and praying to him to help 
you.” 

“ Don’t know nothin’ ’bout prayin’,” the boy 
said, sadly. 

“ Then I will teach you. When you go home, 
Crusoe, go somewhere alone by yourself, and 
kneel down and just ask our Saviour to help 
you to be a good boy, and to teach you to love 
him and pray to him. He will do it if you ask 
him, Crusoe; will you?” ^ 

” I will, sartin sure. I dun no nothin’ ’bout 
it, but if he’ll help me, missis. I’ll try to learn,” 
and with a very sober face Crusoe took his seat 
and waited quietly until the school was dis- 
missed. 

If Mildred that morning could have lifted 
the veil that hid the future, and looked on 
through the years until fifteen with their solemn 
changes had drifted slowly by, and at their 
close seen Crusoe on the eve of departure as a 
missionary for Africa, and if she could have 
heard the words he was then to utter — I. 
date my first religious convictions from the 
first Sunday-school lesson I ever had, in a 
little chapel in Wyona,” would her head have 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


193 


drooped, and would her heart have felt as utterly 
sad and discouraged as it did that Sabbath morn- 
ing, while she sat beside her uncle during the 
church service that followed the Sabbath-school ? 

Ah, it is ours to sow the seed, not always 
ours to gather the fruit, nor even to know how 
the seed is to spring up and grow. Only this 
is sure, sure as the beautiful promises of God’s 
eternal word : “ He that goeth forth and weepeth, 
bearing precious seed, shall doubtless ” — faith is 
not afraid to read, surely — come again with 
rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.” 

That afternoon there was no church service, 
and no hindrance or objection to Mildred’s 
going out if she pleased, to commune with 
nature as she had talked of doing that morning. 
She longed for the beach ; there was something 
in her own restless spirit that craved just then 
the sympathy of the restless sea. But Mildred 
knew that just beyond them was a large water- 
ing place, filled with gay city idlers. The 
beach, on such an afternoon, would probably 
be thronged, and Mildred’s heart had been 
strangely stirred that morning; she felt more 
sensitive for her Saviour’s honor than ever 
before : more desirous to do nothing, that could, 
by any possibility, cause her to be mistaken for 
one who did not love his name, who did not 
care for his glory. So she would not go to the 
17 N 


194 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


beach, and, taking two or three books and a 
shawl, she wandered off alone into the woods. 

Mrs. Corbett was sitting on one end of the 
piazza reading; at the other end Mr. Oxford 
was lounging in his chair. He watched 
Mildred until the drooping boughs of the old 
trees hid her from sight, and then his eyes 
turned and rested on Mrs. Corbett. 

If Mildred had struck him as being unusually 
restless and sad, something in Mrs. Corbett’s 
quiet presence impressed him as breathing the 
very atmosphere of peace and calm content. 
He watched her for a few moments, and then 
did a very unusual thing: rose up and went to 
her. 

“ Mrs. Corbett,” he began abruptly, while the 
lady raised her eyes from her book, and looked 
at him in surprise, “ what do you make of that 
girl?” 

“That girl?” Mrs. Corbett repeated, “does 
thee mean Gray ? ” 

“ No,” he answered, rather shortly. “ Gray 
is well enough : if I could only keep her as she 
is she would always be well. It is of Mildred I 
am thinking now: what of her, Mrs. Corbett?” 

“ Nothing, I trust, to cause thee any uneasi- 
ness.” 

“ No ? well, perhaps not. But she was crying 
this morning in church — tears not caused by 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


195 


the sermon, I know — and this afternoon she has 
seemed strangely excited and restless. She is 
very dear to me ; it troubles me to see her sad. 
Do you know any reason for it, Mrs. Corbett?” 

Mrs. Corbett waited a moment before reply- 
ing. She had watched Mildred in the chapel, 
while Mr. Boudinot was speaking to her, and 
she believed there had been a struggle about 
the Sunday-school teaching, as well as about 
church attendance. Soon she said : 

“ Mildred has sometimes hard battles to fight 
with herself, Mr. Oxford. Her natural inclina- 
tions often urge her in one direction, her high 
sense of duty and her true desire to do right in 
another ; between the two there is little wonder 
if she is often dissatisfied with herself and ill at 
ease.” 

“ * Good and evil set 
Against the other's being strive. . . . 

the will 

Drawn hither, thither, trembles, till it finds 
Its centre and is still,’ ” 

Mr. Oxford repeated slowly. ‘^Will Mildred 
ever find that centre, Mrs. Corbett ? ” 

“ That centre,” Mrs. Corbett said. The 
centre where she will rest in joyful love to God, 
and glad submission to his will ? Yes, she will 
find it, Mr. Oxford ; but may be not until the 
years have done their gracious chastening work ; 


196 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


not until life’s discipline has brought forth its 
beautiful fruit of trust and self-renunciation.” 

“Life’s discipline,” Mr. Oxford answered; 
“ yes, you are right. She may be trusted to the 
discipline of life, bestowed, as it will be, by a 
heavenly Father’s hand. That word is very 
beautiful to me, Mrs. Corbett, meaning, as it 
now does, the tender, loving education God 
gives unto his own.” 

“Yes; now,” Mrs. Corbett said, with the 
dreamy, far-away expression, that denoted that 
her mind was busy with, memories of a long- 
buried past; “but I can remember when we 
neither of us loved that word, Mr. Oxford.” 

The next moment she started; her face 
flushed, and then grew very pale, and rising hur- 
riedly, with none of her usual calmness, she left 
the piazza. Silently, without a word or motion, 
Mr. Oxford looked after her, and for long hours 
after remained in mournful thought alone where 
she left him. 

Meanwhile Mildred had entered the dim, 
quiet woods, and following a winding footpath, 
came soon to an old moss-grown apple-orchard, 
planted long years before by some early settler, 
there in the shelter of the forest, to protect it 
from the scourging sea-winds. The gnarled 
and crooked trunks were moss-grown w'ith age, 
and from the long, drooping branches hung 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


197 


festoons of the light-green moss, with which 
nature by the sea-shore so often hides decay 
and ruin, and though there were green leaves, 
there were no signs of fruit. An old, neglected, 
half-forgotten spot it evidently was; but the 
ground was carpeted with the softest gray moss, 
and through the bent, swaying branches the 
sunshine flickered in warm, golden gleams. 

With charmed, delighted eyes, Mildred sur- 
veyed the spot, and choosing a mossy knoll, 
under one of the oldest trees, she spread her 
shawl, and sitting down gave herself up to the 
soothing influences of the hour. Her Bible, and 
Miss Smiley’s “ Garden Graith ” were in her lap, 
but she did not care to read ; it was joy enough 
just to sit idly there. 

And let the airs, 

And out-door sights, sweep gradual gospels in. 

Regenerating what she was.” 

Presently, in the woods behind her, she heard 
the sound of voices; Gray and Barbara were 
singing, but a firm, cultivated voice was leading 
them ; and very sweet to Mildred were the 
words to which she listened : 

“ God make my life a little song 
That comforteth the sad ; 

That helpeth others to be strong. 

And makes the singer glad.” 

17 ^ 


198 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


The singers were walking, coming nearer 
every instant. Mildred knew that from the 
sound of their voices. Would they find her 
there in that shut-in nook, where she had thought 
herself so securely hidden? She hoped not. 
She would not stir ; perhaps they would follow 
the path and go by. A vain hope ; for just then 
a strong hand bent aside some of the shielding 
branches, a pleasant voice said, “ Here we are 
in the old orchard,” and with a ripple of laugh- 
ter, and a hum of happy words. Gray and Bar- 
bara rolled down on the soft moss. Mildred 
sprang up, and Gray cried gladly : 

“ Why, Cousin Mildred, are you here ? Mr. 
Boudinot, here is Cousin Mildred ; aren’t you 
glad?” 

“ Very glad,” he answered, with a smile, and 
bow to Mildred. 

“ Miss Hathaway,” he hastened to say, as he 
noticed that Mildred was gathering up her books 
and shawl, don’t let us disturb you. You have 
the right to this place, by virtue of first posses- 
sion this afternoon; and we will go away, or 
stay, at your bidding. We cannot consent to 
remain and drive you away.” 

“ Oh ! don’t go. Cousin Mildred,” Gray 
pleaded, rightly interpreting Mr. Boudinot’s 
speech to mean that if Mildred went they could 
not stay. “ Don’t go. Don’t you like this old 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


199 


orchard ? I do. Do sit down ; I want to stay 
here all the afternoon.” 

Mr. Boudinot laughed a little at Gray’s ex- 
cited words. 

*^May I venture to repeat Gray’s request?” 
he asked. ** Don’t go, Miss Hathaway. Allow 
me” — and taking her shawl, he spread it again 
on the ground, and Mildred felt there was noth- 
ing for her to do but obey Gray and sit down. 

I am glad you have found this old orchard,” 
Mr. Boudinot said, as he threw himself down 
under a tree near Mildred. “ It was my favorite 
retreat in boyhood. My sister and I had per- 
haps a rather odd fancy for naming our favorite 
out-door spots, and this was our study. I have 
learned many a hard lesson here,” he added, 
with a smile. “ How do you like it, Miss Hath-* 
away ? ” 

‘‘I cannot weigh, and measure, and estimate 
my likings,” Mildred said, while her eyes fol- 
lowed a yellow bird, flitting through the branches 
above her head, “ so I cannot tell you how much 
I like it, Mr. Boudinot ; but I should never have 
named it a study. It seems to me more like a 
church.” 

‘‘A better place for the hearing of sermons 
than the studying of lessons, you think, then ? ” 
he said, with a smile. 

No,” Mildred answered ; I wasn’t think- 


200 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


ing of sermons; I’m afraid I don’t care much 
for sermons anywhere; but I happened just then 
to remember Dr. Watts’ old lines : 

“ ‘ I’ve been to church, and love to go; 

’Tis like a little heaven below.’ 

“ I never saw any church those lines apply as 
well to as they do to this place, Mr. Boudinot.” 

“ No ? ” he said. “ Perhaps that is because — 
pardon me — you do not carry the same spirit to 
church that you brought here.” 

“ Yes, I do,” Mildred said, perversely. I 
carry the same spirit, but it is not soothed by 
the same influences.” 

‘^Oh, dear,” she thought, ruefully, the next 
second, what does possess me ? Every time I 
meet Mr. Boudinot I say or do something dread- 
ful : what must he think of me ? 

Whatever he thought, apparently the gentle- 
man had no mind to express his opinion. He 
watched Mildred silently for a few minutes, while 
she gathered some moss and amused herself in 
examining it, and then he asked, pleasantly. 
How did you like your class this morning?” 

Mildred turned to him with surprised and 
rather sad eyes. 

“ Don’t you know ? ” she questioned. 

No, truly ; how should I ? Tell me, Miss 
Hathaway.” 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


201 


You gave me the hardest — no, not the hardest 
— but next to the hardest task I ever had in my 
life/’ she said, slowly. 

“ Did I ? That might be thought very unkind 
in me, since, perhaps, you have not learned yet 
to regard me as a friend ; but. Miss Hathaway, 
the harder the task, the greater the victory. If 
your beginning was hard, what was your end ? ” 
** I don’t know,” Mildred answered. And now 
he saw that her lips were trembling. 

“ Perhaps,” he said, kindly, your work this 
morning was one of which we, with our dim 
eyes, can only say, the end is not yet. You did 
what you could. Now, cannot you leave the 
result to him who takes account of every hum- 
ble, prayerful effort, prompted by love to him ? ” 
Mildred did not reply. “ Mr. Boudinot,” she 
asked, soon, “you saw how much trouble I was in 
with Crusoe, this morning ? ” 

“Yes, I saw.” 

“ Then,” she said, with some spirit, forgetting 
what a stranger he really was, “ why didn’t you 
come ? I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t fit 
for that place — there wasn’t any one in that 
chapel who needed help as much as I did.” 

“Are you sure you didn’t receive it ? ” he 
asked, in a grave, kind voice. 

Mildred glanced quickly at him, and caught 
his meaning; and then eyes and head went 


202 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


down together. There was a brief pause, and 
then Mr. Boudinot said : 

“ I did not come to your assistance, Miss 
Hathaway, because I took it for granted that you 
were one of Christ’s followers, and truly de- 
sirous of serving him, wherever you were needed. 
I was not wrong, was I ? ” 

And he waited a moment for Mildred’s answer. 

“ I hope not,” she said, humbly. 

“ But you are not sure ? ” And the voice that 
asked the question was kind, but very grave. 

“ Sometimes I am sure,” Mildred answered, 
sadly; ‘^sometimes I think there is nothing I 
would not dare and do to prove how much I do 
love him : and then again, I do not feel sure at 
all. I do not want to do anything hard. I only 
want to have my own way and be happy.” 

“ Don’t let that discourage you,” he said, 
gently; “it is only the old conflict all God’s 
children have to struggle through. The victory 
is sure if all the while you only clasp Christ’s 
hand, and cling closely to him. But now. Miss 
Hathaway, can you understand why I did not 
come and reprove Crusoe, and perhaps relieve 
you ? It was your work. Your work this Sab- 
bath morning for Christ. I knew it was new 
and hard ; but I would not interfere, for I be- 
lieved, if you looked to him, he would help you, 
and perhaps fit you, by that very hour’s experi- 


sabbath influences. 


203 


ence, for other work he has waiting for you here- 
after.” 

“ Perhaps you were right,” Mildred said, doubt- 
fully, “ but I cannot feel that I gained or did 
much good this morning.” 

Not much, perhaps, but still a little; enough 
to make you willing, and glad, to keep that class 
all summer? ” 

Mildred fairly started at the suggestion. 

“ Oh, no, I cannot,” she said, hurriedly. 

I beg your pardon, but I think you can. 
Miss Hathaway, to such poor, ignorant hearts as 
theirs, can you not rejoice to be a Christ-bearer ? ” 
A what ? ” Mildred looked at him. 

“ You know the fine old legend of St. Chris- 
topher ? ” 

She shook her head. ** I am afraid I don’t 
know any legends,” she said. 

He smiled. “ Some of them are very beau- 
tiful. I promised Gray and Barbara a story; 
will you let me tell them that one here ? ” 

I shall be glad to hear it,” she said, simply. 

Calling the children and sitting with them under 
the shade of the old trees, while the summer 
wind sighed softly through the leaves above 
them, and the summer birds sang their glad 
songs in the branches or twittered to each other, 
Mr. Boudinot told them the old-time story of St. 
Christopher. 


204 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


The giant whose great strength demanded a 
great master; whose allegiance to his king 
ceased when he saw that he trembled at the 
name of Satan; whose bondage to Satan was 
broken when he found that he shrank .from the 
shadow of the cross. 

In plain and simple words, that even Barbara 
could understand, he told them how Offerus 
sought by many weary marches, in many strange 
countries, to find him whose name was linked 
with that mysterious and awe-inspiring cross; 
the Jesus whose name had power to make Satan 
tremble. At last, after many a long and fruit- 
less search, because he would not waste the 
great strength God had given him, he stationed 
himself by the banks of a wide, deep-rolling 
river, to wait and serve there, until the Stronger 
than Satan should come. 

Patiently and faithfully, day after day, he car- 
ried the timid and shrinking and weary travellers 
across, but still the Strongest came not. 

, At last, one dark, wild night, a little child 
came down to the river’s brink and piteously 
implored, “ Carry me across.” 

“I’ll carry thee with joy,” the giant said; 
“ for while I wait here till the strong King, 
Jesus, comes, I love to use rny strength in help- 
ing all who are weaker and frailer than I.” 

So he lifted the little child tenderly in his 


SABBATH INFLUENCES. 


205 


strong arms, and stepped fearlessly into the 
water. But the waves of the river beat fiercely 
around him, and the weight of the little child 
pressed heavier and heavier, until, struggling 
under his burden, he cried, “ Who art thou ? for 
like the weight of the world you bear me down.” 

” Nay, yield not,” said the pleading child- 
voice ; ” for the sake of the strong King Jesus, 
carry me across.” 

Bravely, then, with all his strength the giant 
breasted the strong waves, and struggled to the 
shore ; and, as he sank down, faint and exhausted, 
with his burden, a voice said : 

” No longer Offerus shall be thy name, but 
Christopher, the Christ-bearer. For in the lit- 
tle child, thou hast carried me, Christ Jesus, 
thy Master — the Stronger than the strong one 
for whom thou hast so earnestly sought.” 

The light from the western sky was filling the 
old orchard with gold, when Mr. Boudinot 
ended his story. There was a little ' stir as the 
children started up and ran off, and then, as 
Mildred too arose, Mr. Boudinot repeated : 

O, little is all loss. 

And brief the space ^twixt shore and shore. 

If thou. Lord Jesus, on us lay. 

Through the deep waters of our way. 

The burden that Christopherus bore. 

To carry thee across.’ ” 


18 


CHAPTER X. 


SUMMER DAYS.. 

Humility is the sure cure for many a needless heartache.” — 

Helps. 

T T OW do you like our landlord’s family? ” 

A A Mr. Oxford asked, two or three morn- 
ings after, at breakfast. His eyes rested on Mrs. 
Corbett, and she answered, quietly : 

“Very much. We are fortunate in having 
such pleasant neighbors, I think.” 

“ Yes, I agree with you. Mrs. Rockwell is a 
sunshiny little woman ; one of those rare natures 
that can make even the cloudiest day seem 
bright ; and I like that young minister particu- 
larly well. Pure gold, I think he is. Mildred, 
what do you say ? ” 

“Why, of course, I like them. Uncle Wallace; 
and I think Mr. Boudinot is very pleasant, and 
he talks beautifully, but — ” 

“ What, if you please, Mildred ? That ‘ but ’ 
sounds very ominous. Isn’t the gold pure 
enough to suit you ?” 

( 206 ) 


SUMMER DAYS. 


207 


How can I tell ? I haven’t assayed it, 
Uncle Wallace. Only I wonder if Mr. Boudi- 
not is very brave ?” 

“ Brave ? Pray what is your standard of 
bravery, my dear? Do you want a man to 
offer himself as a mark for a loaded cannon 
without a shudder?” 

“ No, not exactly — but — Uncle Wallace, don’t 
you know what I mean ? ” 

Sorry to say I do not, Mildred. Your 
meanings are sometimes very deep; and though, 
like the fires in the interior of the earth, I have 
no doubt but they exist, they are not always 
apparent on the surface. Give me your defini- 
tion of bravery, if you please.” 

Mildred sat back in her chair, and looked at 
her uncle. “ Pll tell you what I mean,” she 
said, slowly. “ Uncle Wallace, I like a man to 
be able to do great and noble deeds, and to 
face danger when necessary, without flinching. 
Most men can, I suppose. Doctors, I am sure, 
can. They risk their lives every day for the 
'sake of others ; and soldiers and seafaring men 
are brave ; and most men are, I think, who lead 
an active life. They are constantly exposed to 
danger, and so they learn to be courageous ; but 
ministers — I’m not sure about them. Uncle 
Wallace — they spend their lives either in their 
studies reading and writing, or else in their 


208 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


pulpits preaching. They never have to struggle 
and fight, and face all kinds of dangers and 
emergencies like other men, and — I don’t be- 
lieve they can.” 

Mr. Oxford watched Mildred closely while 
she was speaking. 

“ Well, Mildred,” he said, as she stopped and 
coolly helped herself to another muffin, for the 
sublimity of impertinent criticism, commend me 
to a young girl who knows nothing about her 
subject. You at least are brave in daring to 
acknowledge your unbelief. But let me tell 
you, if I know anything about men, Kenneth 
Boudinot would never quail before any danger 
he was called upon to m.eet. And as for minis- 
ters in general — considering how wise and old 
you are, my dear, and what extensive oppor- 
tunities you have had to study them — it is, I 
fear, very presumptuous in me not to agree with 
you ; but you must allow me to say that some 
of the best exhibitions of moral courage ! have 
ever seen, I have witnessed on the part of 
ministers ; and moral courage is a rarer, higher 
thing than mere physical bravery. And the 
grandest types of physical courage are never 
seen save when combined with moral. There, 
my dear, you have my opinion. Because it 
differs from yours, and you are displeased with 
it, you must nevertheless pardon it.” 


SUMMER DAYS. 


209 


Mildred’s cheeks were burning, but she had 
no mind to retract. 

“ You are laughing at me, Uncle Wallace,” 
she said hotly ; ” but I shall not change my 
opinion. I want great deeds to walk in close 
companionship with noble words, else I don’t 
care much for the words. And I do believe 
ministers are better talkers than actors. There, 
that’s just my judgment. And all the king’s 
horses, and all the king’s men, won’t make me 
change it until I’ve good reason to do so.” 

“ Perhaps, before you’ve seen as many 
birthdays as Methuselah, you’ll have reason,” 
Mr. Oxford said, with a little laugh, as he rose 
from the table. “You are very apt to form 
your judgments, Mildred, as some people do 
their marriages — in haste. You will be a rarely 
fortunate girl, if, like them, you do not often have 
to repent at leisure.” 

“ What hast made thee think Mr. Boudinot a 
coward, Mildred?” Mrs. Corbett asked gently, 
as Mr. Oxford left the room. 

“A coward ? Oh, I didn’t use that hard word, 
Mrs. Corbett. And truly I don’t just know 
why I do think he isn’t very brave. But he is 
so very gentle and tender to his sister and that 
little girl, his voice is so sweet and pleasant when 
he speaks to them, that he really seems more 

like a woman than a man when with them ; and 
10* o 


210 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


I believe that is what makes it hard for me to 
imagine him doing a man’s work in the world.” 

The bravest are the tenderest,’ ” 

Mrs. Corbett quoted, with a little smile. “ Mr. 
Boudinot looks like a man, and a very noble 
man, too, my dear. And I wouldn’t quarrel 
with him for being gentle, if I were thee. The 
world is not so full of gentlemen that women 
can afford to despise them yet.” 

“ Mildred,” Mr. Oxford said, several days 
after, as she entered the dining-room in the 
early afternoon, and found him examining a 
basket of choice early fruit, that had just been 
received from the city, “ Mildred, wouldn’t you 
like to take some of these to Mrs. Rockwell 
She has kept our table so bountifully supplied 
with her strawberries, that I should like in some 
measure to return her kindness.” 

“ I’ll be delighted to take them,” Mildred said ; 
and waiting only for Mr. Oxford to sort and 
arrange the basket, she started. 

Mrs. Rockwell was sitting with her sewing in 
the cool, pleasant porch, while Barbara, little 
Marion, and Gray — who spent most of her time 
there — were playing on the beautiful lawn. 

“ Sit down. Miss Hathaway,” she said, after 
the tempting fruit had been delivered and ad- 
mired; and nothing loath, Mildred dropped down 


SUMMER DAYS. 


211 


in a low willow rocker, tossed her garden hat 
on the floor beside her, and yielded herself to 
the charm of Mrs. Rockwell’s conversation and 
manner. 

She had sat there some time, when the gate 
opened, and Mr. Boudinot came up to them in 
his hunting-suit, his gun in his hand, and a well- 
filled game-bag slung at his side. 

**See my trophies?” he said brightly, after he 
had greeted Mildred ; and the contents of his 
bag were soon spread on the grass before them. 

Mildred stooped down and picked up a “ yel- 
low-leg,” and with pitying hand stroked the soft 
plumage. “ How cruel it seems to shoot them!” 
she said, almost reproachfully, as she looked 
at Mr. Boudinot. “ They are so innocent, and 
enjoy life so much.” 

“ Yes ; I grant your last assertion. But it is 
not confined to birds. Miss Hathaway. If that 
is your principle, in order to be consistent you 
should be a vegetarian. Are you?” he asked 
laughingly. 

“No; I almost wish I was, though. It is 
cruel, Mr. Boudinot ; you cannot make anything 
else of it.” 

“ Then I won’t try. I never waste time try- 
ing to accomplish the impossible. But, Miss 
Hathaway, I fear I am very hard-hearted, for 
my conscience absolves me from all wrong. I 


212 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


needed just this exercise — this long tramp over 
meadows and fields ; and my sister’s appetite is 
delicate, and nothing tempts it more than a 
dainty bird. I never shoot the sweet singing 
birds; and for what I have done” — with a 
laughing gesture of entreaty — I hope you’ll 
forgive me.” 

Mildred looked at him with a doubtful smile. 
“ My forgiveness won’t matter much, whether I 
give or withhold it, I imagine,” she answered. 
“ Of course you’ll go again the first oppor- 
tunity.” 

“Of course; and enjoy it, too; and revenge 
myself on you by sending you over a snipe for 
your breakfast,” he said, with a laugh. “ Hallo, 
there, what’s the matter?” he called, in a differ- 
ent voice, as with a spring and snarl, and fright- 
ful growl, a dog went bounding past the gate, 
and at the same moment a man on horseback 
halted just outside. 

“See that air dog?” he called. 

“ Yes ; what’s the matter? ” 

“ Matter enough, I calklate. He’s mad ; mad 
as a March hare. Right smart time I had to 
keep out of his way, I kin tell you.” 

“ Why <iidn’t you kill him ? ” 

“ Kill him ? Wal, now, that’s a cool ques- 
tion, I must say. Why didn’t I strike him with 
a flash of lightnin’ ? Jest cos I couldn’t. Equil 


SUMMER DAYS. 


213 


chance, I guess, whether he’d kill me or I him, 
and I don’t calklate to run no risks. You bet- 
ter look after them children, and keep things 
close, I kin tell you. I’m going on and will 
warn the people. We’ve got to keep a smart 
lookout when that kind of game is runnin’ 
wild,” and, with a g’lang ” to his horse, the man 
rode off. 

Even while the man was speaking, Mr. Boudi- 
not had reloaded his gun. He looked now at 
his sister as she came and stood by his side. 

“What are you going to do, Kenneth?” she 
asked, in a voice that trembled a little. 

He stooped and kissed her. “ Go after that 
dog,” he said, quietly, 

“ Oh, no, not you, Kenneth !” 

“Yes, I for one. He must be killed. Don’t 
fear for me. Think of the lives that are in dan- 
ger ; of the little children playing in the street.” 

Mrs. Rockwell made no answer, but Mildred 
spoke : 

“ Why should you go, Mr. Boudinot ? Some 
one else will kill him.” 

“ Yes, we will hope so. If some one else 
does not, I will. Keep the children in the 
house, Margaret. Miss Hathaway, stay here. 
Don’t go outside the gate until you hear that 
dog is dead,” and, as he said this, with a rapid 
step, Mr. Boudinot hurried away. 


214 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Mildred stood beside Mrs. Rockwell on the 
step of the little porch, and watched him as he 
walked quickly down the road, until the trees 
hid him from sight. Then, with a little sigh, 
Mrs. Rockwell called the children in, and laid 
her hand kindly on Mildred’s shoulder. 

“ It is useless to watch longer,” she said ; 
come in and sit with me in the parlor. Miss 
Hathaway.” 

Mildred hesitated. “ I don’t know,” she said. 
“ I think perhaps I had better run home and 
tell them.” 

“ No ; Kenneth’s request was to stay here. 
He would not have said that, if he had not 
thought it necessary. We could not see where 
that dog went after he passed the gate ; he may 
start up suddenly anywhere. There is such a 
close fence around the cottage that he cannot 
get in there. And Mr. Oxford and Mrs. Cor- 
bett, at this hour, I remember they told me, are 
always in the house, and the servants will be in 
the kitchen. I think they are quite safe there, 
and you must stay with me.” 

Where is Mr. Rockwell?” Mildred asked. 

“ Gone to the city. Left home this morning. 
I expect him back Friday night. I’m glad he 
isn’t here now ; he’d be another to feel anxious 
about,” and again Mrs. Rockwell’s low sigh 
smote Mildred’s ear. 


SUMMER DAYS. 


215 


Slowly and anxiously the minutes went by in 
the sunny, flower-scented parlor. Mrs. Rock- 
well tried bravely to keep up a cheerful chat 
with Mildred, and made a feint of going on with 
her sewing. But the pretty white dress she was 
making for Marion dropped often from her 
hands, and her words were marked by long, sad 
pauses. And at last she excused herself and 
hurried up-stairs. The children wandered off to 
the roomy kitchen, and, left alone, Mildred took 
her seat in a low chair by one of the open win- 
dows, and watched and waited for some sight 
or sound to break the oppressive silence. None 
came. For a long while the birds, and low 
south wind, and happy humming insects had 
the world to themselves. 

Suddenly she heard again the angry snarl 
and growl, and, leaning from her window, saw a 
sight that made her heart grow sick with dread. 
At the far end of the lawn a gate had, by some 
accident, been left open, and, rushing through 
it, with glaring, fiery eyes and foaming mouth, 
came the dog for which Mr. Boudinot was then 
searching. 

Mildred remembered the open hall-door, and, 
with a quick spring, closed first that, and then 
the low, open windows. Her next thought was 
the children. She found them with the faithful 
colored servant in the kitchen. Crusoe was 


216 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


there, too ; doors and windows were all closed, 
and they were safe. Mrs. Rockwell was still in 
her room. There was not a man at home. 
Nothing for any of them to do but wait and 
pray. 

Back to the parlor, and to her station by the 
window she went, drawn by some fascination 
she could not resist. 

The dog was still there in the centre of the 
lawn, but comparatively quiet. He was crouch- 
ing low; occasionally he raised his head and 
uttered his frightful growl, and all the while his 
glowing, angry eyes roved restlessly around. 
For minutes, that seemed hours, Mildred stood 
and watched. What could they do? what 
would happen next ? She could find no answer 
to either question : she could only wait. 

The little clock on the shelf began to strike 
presently ; she turned to see the hour. When 
she looked again from the window Mr. Boudi- 
not was on the lawn. 

Did he know the dog was there? How 
could she tell him without disturbing the ani- 
mal, and so perhaps exposing him to greater 
danger ? There was no time for her to decide, 
for in a second the dog had heard the sound of 
coming steps, and, with a spring, was on his 
feet. 

Mr. Boudinot was alone on the lawn ; but as 


SUMMER DAYS. 


217 


Mildred looked, she saw outside the fence a 
crowd of men and boys, armed with sticks, and 
stones, and some even provided with guns ; all 
watching, but all careful not to expose them- 
selves. 

“ Cowards,” the girl muttered between her 
tight-set teeth, “ if I was a man. I’d blush for 
you. Oh,” she cried, as she saw the spring of 
the dog, and Mr. Boudinot’s quick dodge to one 
side ; “ this is dreadful. God help him, for no 
man will.” 

There came a sharp flash, and report from a 
gun. As the smoke cleared away, she saw the 
dog — wounded, but still alive — make another 
desperate bound at Mr. Boudinot. Did he reach 
him — touch him ? She could not look longer. 
Dropping on the floor, she buried her face in a 
chair, and lay there trembling in an agony of 
fear. . 

In a second there came another report from a 
gun, but Mildred neither looked nor stirred. 
There was a shout then from a multitude of 
voices. Was it a shout of joy or of horror? 
She could not tell ; she dared not try to see. 

Time went by ; the noise died away ; and 
again the sweet silence of the summer afternoon 
rested peacefully over the old house. 

The door of the parlor opened after a while. 
Some one came in — stopped a moment — and 
19 


218 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


then, with a quick step, came to where she still 
lay, with her head in her chair. 

Miss Hathaway,” said a kind, quiet voice. 

She started up then. Mr. Boudinot stood be^ 
fore her; his hunting-suit had been exchanged 
for his ordinary dress, and face and manner were^ 
pleasant and composed, as usual. 

“ Oh,” Mildred panted, are you safe ? Did 
that dreadful dog hurt you ? ” 

“ No, not at all. I am perfectly safe, and he 
is dead, and all danger is over.” 

“ I am so glad ; so thankful.” And the girl’s 
strained, anxious eyes grew moist with tears, and 
a little color came into her pale, frightened face. 

“ It was so dreadful,” she said, with trembling 
lips ; “ I shall never forget it. I never saw any- 
thing like it before. 

“I am sorry you saw this,” he said, kindly, as 
he placed her gently in a large chair standing 
near. ** But, Miss Hathaway, don’t think of the 
danger now ; think only of the mercy that has 
protected us through it.” 

“I shall never forget it,” she said again, while ^ 
she hastily brushed away her tears. He did not 
speak for a moment; then he asked, “ Have you 
been alone long ? ” 

“ Through it all,” Mildred said, with a sob. 

“ I am sorry,” he answered. “ But Margaret 
was nearly as much overcome. And ” — with a 


SUMMER DAYS. 


219 


tender smile — “ there was but one way in which 
she could help me safely through. Miss Hath- 
away, it is a great strength sometimes to re- 
member how safe those are over whom he gives 
his angels charge.” 

“Yes,” Mildred said, softly. Suddenly she 
looked up. The tears in her eyes could not 
hide the fire that shone there, and though her 
lips trembled, a sweet, humble expression played 
around them. 

“ Mr. Boudinot,” she said, in a low, earnest, 
but broken voice, “ I want you to forgive me. 
I — told Uncle Wallace I — didn’t believe — min- 
isters — I didn’t believe — you — were — brave. I 
take it all back. That was the bravest thing I 
ever saw. None but a brave man would have 
dared to do it.” 

His face flushed ; at first with surprise, then, 
as she explained, with another feeling ; but his 
voice was even quieter than usual as he an- 
swered : 

“Thank you. Miss Mildred. Praise is very 
pleasant; but I only did what any true man 
would have done, and I do not know — do you ? 
— who should be brave, if not a Christian.” 

“ Kenneth,” Mrs. Rockwell said at that mo- 
ment, as she came lightly in and to her brother’s 
side, “ come and have some tea ; you need it, I 
know. Mildred, dear — I don’t think I can ever 


220 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


call you Miss Hathaway again, after this after- 
noon — we have had a great fright, haven’t we ? 
But it’s all over now, and well over, so we won’t 
think about it any longer. Come,” and in her 
pretty, imperative way, she led them out to the 
tea-table. 

Two more days full of pleasant lights and 
tender shadows went by, and in the early even- 
ing of the third day, as Mildred and Mr. Oxford 
sat on the piazza, they heard the chapel bell 
ring. 

“ What is that for ? ” Mr. Oxford asked, turn- 
ing in surprise to Mildred. 

It is Friday evening,” she answered, “ and I 
remember Mrs. Rockwell told me there was 
always a Friday evening prayer meeting in the 
chapel.” 

“ That is what the bell is ringing for, then, of 
course. Would you like to go, Mildred? Wher- 
ever a Christian is, I think he should always, when 
possible, attend public service. Perhaps — ” Mr. 
Oxford hesitated a little — “perhaps Mrs. Corbett 
would like to go, too. Ask her, if you please, 
Mildred.” 

Mildred obeyed. But Mrs. Corbett’s head 
ached, and she was not well enough to go out ; 
so alone, in the pleasant summer twilight, Mr. 
Oxford and Mildred walked to the chapel. 

There were quite a good many present, all 


SUMMER DAYS. 


221 


strangers; and as Mildred took her seat and 
glanced at the pulpit, she perceived that Mr. 
Boudinot occupied it. The little organ was 
open, but the organist was not there, and after 
waiting a while, Mr. Boudinot left the pulpit and 
walked down to the seat where Mildred and her 
uncle were sitting. 

“ Miss Mildred,” he said, “ you play, I be- 
lieve ? ” 

“A little,” Mildred answered, with a blush. 

Then will you help us out of a difficulty ? 
The organist is not here, and my sister, who 
usually supplies her place, is late. I am not 
even sure that she is coming. Will you be kind 
enough to play for us to-night ? ” 

Mildred began to stammer an excuse; but 
Mr. Oxford, in a quiet but authoritative voice, 
said : 

** Go, Mildred ! ” and she could not refuse. 

She was really, for a young girl, a good mu- 
sician, and her voice was sweet and cultivated, 
but Mr. Boudinot’s request had taken her by 
surprise. She was greatly embarrassed when 
she took her seat before the organ, and in her 
embarrassment struck the wrong notes at the 
very beginning. If she had been at home, or 
playing for friends, she would have corrected 
her mistake, and conquered her confusion at 
once. But in a strange church, surrounded by 
19 * 


222 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


strangers, the consciousness of one blunder only 
added to her embarrassment, and caused her to 
blunder again. And so she blundered through 
the hymn, making a succession of mistakes in 
her playing, and breaking down on the second 
line, when she attempted to sing. 

To her great relief, Mrs. Rockwell appeared 
before it was time for the second hymn; and 
Mildred dropped down in a corner-seat morti- 
fied and ashamed, and mentally determined 
never to touch an organ-key again in a church, 
or anywhere before strangers. 

She did not enjoy the short evening service ; 
she could think of nothing but herself, and her 
miserable failure; and the moment the benedic- 
tion was pronounced, she rushed to her uncle 
and hurried him out of the chapel. 

“Why, Mildred,” Mr. Oxford said, as they 
were walking home, “ how did you happen to 
play so poorly ? I didn’t suppose you were a 
Patti, my dear, but I did think you knew enough 
about music to play a simple hymn correctly.” 

“ I thought so, too,” Mildred said, fiercely ; 
“ but I begin to think I don’t know much about 
anything. But one thing I do know : I’ll never 
touch an organ in a church again, as long as 
my name is Mildred Hathaway.” 

“ No ; don’t say that,” Mrs. Rockwell said 
brightly, as she came up with her brother ; and 


SUMMER DAYS. 


223 


with a pleasant ‘'Good-evening, Mr. Oxford,” 
dropped into step with them. 

“ I do say it ! ” Mildred said, with strong 
emphasis. 

“ Better leave it unsaid, my dear,” Mr. Oxford 
advised. “ Our unspoken words rarely cause 
us as much regret as our spoken ones. Here 
we are at your gate, Mrs. Rockwell. Did Mr. 
Rockwell return from the city to-night ? ” 

“Yes; that was why I was late at the meet- 
ing.” 

“ Then, if you will invite us, we will go in for 
a little while. I’d like to talk with him about 
some city matters.” 

Mrs. Rockwell’s invitation was very cordially 
and laughingly given. And- while Mr. Oxford 
sat down in the porch with Mr. Rockwell, she 
took Mildred on into the parlor. Soon there 
came a cry from maid Marion, and full of moth- 
erly solicitude, Mrs. Rockwell hastened away, 
leaving Mildred alone with her brother. 

Mildred, still smarting with her mortification, 
said, “ I wish I hadn’t gone to the chapel this 
evening. Mr. Boudinot, I am very sorry; I 
know I spoiled your meeting.” 

“ You didn’t spoil mine,” he said, with a little 
smile. “I enjoyed the meeting very much. 
Miss Mildred; though I am truly sorry you 
were so much annoyed.” 


224 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ I was such a fool to try to play,” Mildred 
said hotly. “ How all those people must have 
laughed at me ! ” 

“ Do you judge so, because that is what 
you would have done, had your places been 
reversed?” Mr. Boudinot asked, in a quiet 
voice. 

Mildred’s head drooped a little. I — I didn’t 
mean to be uncharitable,” she said more gently, 
“ but I did play like an idiot, Mr. Boudinot ; you 
can’t deny it. And I hope — I hope you’ll never 
ask me to play for you again.” 

“ Never is a very long day,” he answered 
pleasantly. “ My hope is the opposite of yours. 
Miss Mildred ; still I will be magnanimous 
enough to promise to respect your wishes in the 
matter; only — don’t you wan’t to hear a very 
pretty poem by Jean Ingelow?” he asked, in a 
changed, laughing voice, as he took a book from 
the table. 

I’m not in a poetic mood, to-night,” Mildred 
answered, with cold dignity. 

“ I’m sorry. But a little good poetry will 
sometimes waken the poetic feelings, even when 
they seem most dormant. Listen to this. Miss 
Mildred. It isn’t long.” And in a low, quiet 
voice, that yet made every word tell, Mr. Bou- 
dinot read : 


SUMMER DAYS. 


225 


“*A nightingale made a mistake; 

She sang a few notes out of tune ; 

Her heart was ready to break, 

And she hid herself from the moon. 

She wrung her claws, poor thing. 

But was quite too proud to speak ; 

She tucked her head under her wing 
And pretended to be asleep ! 

*A lark, arm-in-arm with a thrush, 
Came sauntering up to the place ; 

The nightingale felt herself blush. 
Though feathers covered her face ; 

She knew they had heard her song. 
She felt them snicker and sneer; 

She thought this life was too long. 
And wished she could skip a year. 

** * Oh ! nightingale ! ’ cooed a dove, 

* Oh ! nightingale ! what’s the use ? 

You bird of beauty and love. 

Why behave like a goose ? 

Don’t skulk away from our sight 
Like a common, contemptible fowl, 

You bird of joy and delight. 

Why behave like an owl ? 

« < Only think of all you have done : 

Only think of all you can do : 

A false note is really fun 
From such a bird as you ! 

Lift up your proud little crest ; 

Open your musical beak ; 

Other birds have to do their best. 

You need only speak. 

P 


226 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


“ ‘ The nightingale shyly took 

Her head from under her wing, 

And giving the dove a look, 
Straightway began to sing. 

There was never a bird could pass. 
The night was divinely calm; 

And the people stood on the grass 
To hear that wonderful psalm ! 

‘ The nightingale did not care, 

She only sang to the skies ; 

Her song ascended there, 

And there she fixed her eyes. 

The people that stood below 
She knew but little about ; 

And this story’s a moral I know • 
If you’ll try to find it out ! ’ ” 


Mrs. Rockwell’s pretty parlor was very quiet 
for some moments after Mr. Boudinot finished 
his reading. Mildred stood by the window 
with her back to the light, and neither spoke 
nor stirred. 

Have I taken too great a liberty ? ” Mr. 
Boudinot asked, as he replaced the book on the 
table and came to the window. Pardon me, 
if I have. Miss Mildred. Perhaps I ought not 
to have read that, but,” with a little thrill of 
amusement in his voice, “ the temptation was 
too strong to be resisted. I was never able to 
make such a direct application of that little 
poem before.” 


SUMMER DAYS, 


227 


Mildred did not turn. “ I don’t see the ap- 
plication,” she said, in a stifled voice ; “ I’m not 
a nightingale.” 

What will you think of me, if I say I am 
very glad you are not. Miss Mildred?” 

I don’t know why you should be glad,” 
Mildred answered, soberly; I’m not: I wish I 
was a nightingale. If I were, then I’d do like 
one. I wouldn’t care for one failure. But I 
don’t believe I do anything very well.” 

“ Perhaps you haven’t found out the moral to 
that little poem, Miss Mildred. Isn’t this the 
secret of the nightingale’s success ?” 

“ ‘ She only sang to the skies ; 

Her song ascended there, 

And there she fixed her eyes.’ ” 

Mildred’s face changed. '‘I can’t do that,” 
she said, in a tone of humble confession ; “ and 
I don’t see how any one in this world can.” 

Perhaps we never can perfectly. Perhaps it 
would not be well for us to be too indifferent to 
the words and opinions of others. But, Miss 
Mildred, it is one of the things towards which 
we can press. And the more steadfastly our 
eyes are fixed on the skies, the more unsel- 
fishly our talents are dedicated to our Saviour, 
the more truly sweet and humble will be our 
lives. Failure, or success, will matter little to 


228 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


US then, save as they reflect honor or dishonor 
upon Him.” 

Mildred turned from him, and leaned out 
again into the warm night air, sweet with the 
fragrance of syfingas and white lilacs. 

“Come, Mildred, are you ready?” Mr. Ox- 
ford called from the hall. 

“ Yes, in a moment,” she answered, breath- 
lessly. “ Mr. Boudinot,” and she spoke with a 
blushing, downcast face, “ I hope you won’t 
need to have me play for you again, because, 
you know, I am not sure, and I might make 
another failure ; but if ever you do want me. I’ll 
do the best I can,” and, without waiting for his 
answer, Mildred hurried to her uncle. 


CHAPTER XI. 


COUNTRY LIFE. 

‘As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, 
So nobleness enkindleth nobleness.” — Lowell. 




C OME, Mildred,” Mr. Oxford called, from 
the foot of the stairs, one lovely after- 
noon, “the boat’s ready, and the tide won’t 
wait for us, even if you can persuade old father 
Time to do so. Bring a thick shawl, my dear, 
and hurry along.” 

“Coming, coming. Uncle Wallace,” Mildred 
answered, gayly, as, in her boating-dress of dark 
blue flannel, with water-proof and shawl on her 
arm, she came flying down the stairs, closely 
followed by Gray. 

“Are you really ready ? with nothing forgot- 
ten, we will have to send after or return for ? ” 
Mr. Oxford asked. “ Come, then,” and he led 
the way with Gray down to the dock, while 
Mrs. Corbett and Mildred, with Robert, who 
had come down for his vacation, followed. 

They were going to the light-house : a pleas- 
20 ( 229 ) 


230 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


ant sail of several hours across the bay; and 
with some little hurry of excitement and laughter 
they reached their boat, and pushed off from 
the shore. 

Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell and Mr. Boudinot 
were with them ; wind and tide were in their 
favor; and over the blue, swelling waters the 
strong, swift boat sped on its way. 

Above them was the bright azure of a warm, 
cloudless summer sky, and rising from the bay, 
on either side, were green meadows and fertile 
fields of wind-swayed wheat, beautiful with the 
lights and shadows that swept across them. 

“ Nature comes sometimes 
And says, I am ambassador for God.” 

And so she came that afternoon, and filled all 
their hearts with joy, and mirth, and sweet con- 
tent. 

The light-house was reached after a delight- 
ful sail. A strong, massive structure, elevated 
above the sea several hundred feet, and built — 
not on the sea-shore, where the shifting, treacher- 
ous sands would soon have been washed away — 
but just beyond the bay, where a strip of firm 
land stretched out and offered a secure founda- 
tion. 

“Who’s going up?” Mr. Oxford asked, as 
they stood in the hall on the ground-floor and 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


231 


watched the keeper, while, with his ponderous 
great key, he unlocked the heavy door that 
admitted to the iron stairway, that wound round 
and round up to the magnificent lamp, whose 
constant light, through the storms and darkness 
of half a century, had never failed to pierce the 
gloom of night, and with its bright gleams, 
thrown far across the water, cheer and guide the 
sea-tossed bewildered seaman. “Who’s going 
up ?’’ 

A chorus of laughing voices answered, “ I, 
and I, and I,’’ and, following the keeper, they 
began the toilsome ascent. 

Half way up they came to a small, deep win- 
dow, and here, breathless and exhausted, Mrs. 
Corbett stopped to rest, while, flushed and ex- 
cited with her exercise, Mildred paused beside 
her. 

“You are not going to prove faint-hearted 
and turn back now?’’ Mr. Boudinot said, with a 
smile, as he looked down on them from the 
upper landing. 

“ I think I will not go farther,’’ Mrs. Corbett 
answered, in her gentle way. “ It is very beau- 
tiful here,” and her eyes swept over the broad, 
lovely prospect that, through the open window, 
was spread before her. “ I will rest here and 
wait till thee comes down. Go on, my dear ; 
thee will lose a great deal if thee stops here.” 


232 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


** How do you know, if youVe never been up?” 
Mildred asked, archly. 

“ Ah, I have climbed to the top of a light- 
house before to-day,” Mrs. Corbett answered, 
with something like a sigh. 

*‘So have I,” said a voice behind her; and 
with a grave bow, Mr. Oxford and Gray passed 
by. 

Mrs. Corbett’s calm face flushed a little, and 
then grew pale ; but her voice was quiet as ever 
as she repeated : 

“ Go on, my dear ; ” and obeying her, Mildred 
started upward. 

Mr. Boudinot waited for her. 

“ Climbing isn’t play,” she panted, as she 
reached his side. 

“ No ; but all who climb successfully, find a 
rich compensation for their fatigue, at the top,’* 
he said, with a slight smile. 

Mildred stopped in the very act of stepping 
up on the next stair. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” she said, 
slowly. 

'‘Are not the words good English ? ” he asked, 
lightly ; “ what is there about them that puzzles 
you ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said, as she started again, 
but more slowly ; “ but I believe you are finding 
a meaning in this afternoon’s play, that I should 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


233 


never have thought of. Is everything a parable 
to you, Mr. Boudinot ? ” 

No ; not everything. But perhaps every- 
thing would be, if my eyes were only clear 
enough to read and understand. But about this 
climbing, Miss Mildred : does it not make you 
think a little of the way in which the Christian, 
with faith for his staff, climbs upward and 
heavenward? Is not our life-path often like 
this close stairway, winding round and round 
through this dark hall, with little light save the 
faint rays that come down to us from above? 
Now and then we come to a pleasant resting 
place, like Mrs. Corbett’s window, where our 
hearts can find beautiful hints of the glory that 
is to be revealed ; but ordinarily, we climb on- 
ward and upward, understanding little about our 
way, and knowing only that at the summit we 
shall rest, and be satisfied.” 

Mildred did not answer. With a thoughtful 
face, very unlike a young lady’s on a pleasure 
excursion, she went on until they came where 
the iron stairs stopped, and a steep ladder led up 
to the lamp. 

With very sober eyes, Mildred looked at it. 

“It is no use,” she said, despairingly; “I 
shall fail here, as I have so often failed before. 
I never can go up this ladder, Mr. Boudinot.” 

“ Try,” Mr. Boudinot said, brightly. 

20 ^ 


234 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Mildred shook her head. 

“ I might as well try to scale the rock of Gi- 
braltar,” she said. If I had wings, Mr. Bou- 
dinot, I might go up here, and up other heights, 
too,” she added, as she recalled Mr. Boudinot’s 
little simile and made a quick application of it ; 
“ but as it is. I’ll either have to stand still here 
and wait, or turn and go down.” 

“ You cannot stand still, and I know you won’t 
go down,” he said, with a smile. Come.” And 
as he reached down his hand to help her, he 
hummed softly : 

* Ye haena nae wings, but 
Come up on a prayer.’ ” 

Thus encouraged, Mildred could not refuse to 
try, and after a little struggle she stood with the 
rest of the party around the wonderful lamp. 

I really do not think Aladdin’s lamp was 
anything to it,” Mrs. Rockwell said, in her pretty, 
decided way. 

No ? why not ? ” Mr. Rockwell asked. 

“Oh, for a woman’s reason: because I don’t,” 
she returned. 

“That will not answer. When a little lady 
makes as positive an assertion as that, she must 
have a better reason to justify it,” Mr. Rockwell 
said, teasingly ; while Mr. Oxford stood by lis- 
tening, half amused. 


COUNTRY LIFE, 


235 


•‘I have abetter reason,” she said; “but first, 
before I tell it, I’ll ask a riddle. Kenneth, Miss 
Mildred, Mr. Hathaway, come round here. Why 
is this lamp more wonderful than Aladdin’s ? ” 

/ “ What did Aladdin’s lamp do ? ” Gray asked, 
innocently. 

“ Brought the genii to obey him,” Robert an- 
swered. 

“Oh! that’s just it,” Mildred exclaimed, with 
enthusiasm. “ Think of all the precious, won- 
derful things this lamp brings to the hands and 
hearts of waiting men. If for one night it should 
forget to shine, do you suppose we could count 
the wrecks that might be before morning ? Yes ; 
Mrs. Rockwell is right ; it is a great deal more 
wonderful than Aladdin’s.” 

“ The fairy stories of the olden days seem 
commonplace when compared with the mar- 
vellous realities of to-day,” Mr. Oxford said, 
thoughtfully. 

“ Do you remember Portia’s candle. Miss Mil- 
dred ? ” Mr. Boudinot asked. 

“ ‘ How far that little candle throws his beams. 

So shines a good deed in a naughty world,’ ” 


Mildred quoted, with a blush. 

“ Yes, even that candle grows dim here ; for 
the light of this lamp is seen for a distance of 
over twenty miles at sea.” 


236 


ON THE WA y HOME, 


** Twenty miles ? ” Mildred repeated, with won- 
der ; while far away, across the narrow bay, and 
over the green meadows and banks beyond, her 
eyes roved to the ocean; that like a sleeping 
giant was resting peacefully, one vast expanse 
of sea-green water, unbroken even by a white- 
cap, save near the shore, where a few tiny waves 
broke and rolled with a low musical murmur 
upon the gravelly beach. 

“Yes; we are reading parables to-day; what 
does that make you think of?” 

“ Doesn’t Portia tell us ? ” Mildred asked tim- 
idly. 

Mr. Boudinot smiled. “We can’t improve 
on Shakespeare, that I must allow,” he said; 
“ but yet. Miss Mildred, may we not venture to 
say a little more ? The light of this lamp, that 
reaches so far, and shines mid fog, and cloud, 
and tempest, and guides so many storm-tossed 
vessels home, and yet does it all unconsciously, 
shining simply because it is its nature and its part 
to shine — is it not something like the unconscious 
influence of a consecrated, sincere Christian, who 
fills his place, and does his work, and is lumin- 
ous, not from conscious efforts of his own, but 
because Christ dwells in his soul, and shines 
through him, and through him illumines 
others ? ” 

“All Christians are not like that,” Mildred 


COUNTRY LIFE, 


237 


said; “some of us are a good deal. more like 
dark lanterns, than like this shining lamp.” 

“ Some of us do not always know what we 
are like,” Mr. Boudinot answered. “ But at 
least. Miss Mildred, we know what we are 
privileged to be and do. There is a sentence in 
a favorite story I used to read when I was a 
boy, that I have not forgotten — ‘ If one life 
shines, the life next to it will shine also’ — it 
is as true as the undoubted fact, that the shining 
of this lamp has saved many a strong ship from 
wreck, many a life from destruction.” 

“ Mildred! Mr. Boudinot ! ” Mr. Oxford called, 
“ come ; we are going down ; if we stay much 
longer the wind may fail us, and we may find 
ourselves becalmed.” 

With regretful eyes, Mildred turned to take a 
last survey of the beautiful scene before her. 
Green fields, over which birds were joyously 
skimming ; blue waters, dotted here and there 
with white sails ; and over all, the golden light 
of a fair June afternoon. Slowly she looked 
around, and then, as she turned to go, said 
thoughtfully, 

“ I wonder if I will ever come here again. I 
think I would not mind how hard and difficult 
my life-climbing might be, if at its end I could 
be sure of finding such exquisite peace, and 
beauty, and rest, awaiting me.” 


238 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


‘^Are you not sure?” Mr. Boudinot said, in a 
kind, grave voice. “ Is not the Rock of Ages 
firm enough for your faith to rest upon Avithout 
trembling? Here is this frightful ladder. Miss 
Mildred,” he continued, in a different tone; “now 
how are you going down it?” 

Mildred came to the edge and looked cau- 
tiously down. 

“It will be a great deal worse going down 
than it was coming up,” she said, while a quaver 
in her voice told how much she really dreaded 
it. “ Mr. Boudinot, isn’t there any other way ? ” 

He laughed. “ Without wings ? I am afraid 
not; since we haven’t a balloon at our com- 
mand. Come, Miss Mildred, the others are al- 
ready down. I will go first, and keep beside 
you, so that you cannot fall even if you try to 
do so. Come.” 

Poor Mildred. She wanted to show herself 
very brave. She was bitterly ashamed of her 
timidity; but human nature would be human 
nature ; and after placing one foot on the first 
round, she drew hastily back. 

“ Oh ! I cannot ; it makes me dizzy only to 
think of it,” she cried. 

Mr. Boudinot was silent for a moment. “ Miss 
Mildred,” he said then, in a grave, decided voice, 
“you must go down.” 

“ I would if I could,” Mildred said piteously. 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


239 


“ I am sorry to trouble you, Mr. Boudinot ; 
please go down and leave me.” 

‘‘ Leave you ? will you come right after me ? ” 

“ I cannot ; my head is swimming now,” and 
Mildred sat down on the floor, and looked as 
she felt, the picture of despair. 

With cool deliberateness, Mr. Boudinot took 
out his handkerchief, and folded it into a 
bandage. 

“ Miss Mildred,” he said, “ will you let me 
blindfold you ? That will prevent your grow- 
ing dizzy, and you can go down then without 
difficulty.” 

But I can’t see.” 

‘‘ You will be the better for it ; I will lead 
you.” 

Mildred rose to her feet, pushed aside Mr. 
Boudinot’s extended hand, and once more 
stepped to the ladder. 

“ I won’t be so ridiculous,” she said, in a 
husky voice; and before Mr. Boudinot could 
step in front, she had begun the descent. 

* Mr. Boudinot followed close behind, watching 
carefully lest she should slip and fall ; but safely, 
without tripping or stopping, Mildred reached 
the bottom. 

Mr. Boudinot smiled as he stepped down be- 
side her. “Bravo! Miss Mildred!” he said, 
“ you are braver than you thought you were.” 


240 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Mildred drew a long breath. “ I don’t think 
I am brave,” she said humbly; ‘‘but — I believe 
I did come down on a prayer, Mr. Boudirfot.” 

It was with a kind face and kinder voice that 
he answered her. 

‘‘ That is the christian!s ladder,” he said, “ and 
always safe and sure. Now, Miss Mildred, shall 
we see which can reach Mrs. Corbett’s window 
first?” 

Mrs. Corbett’s window was vacant when they 
reached it ; she had gone down with the rest of 
the party, and without pausing, Mr. Boudinot 
and Mildred hurried after them. All was ex- 
citement in the hall. A large company of vis- 
itors had just arrived, and were preparing to go 
up, while Mr. Oxford stood by the door, waiting 
impatiently for the coming of the laggards. 

“ Here at last,” he said. Come, we shan’t 
get home till morning, if we don’t start soon. 
The wind is dying, and the captain says we 
must hurry, if we don’t want to be becalmed. 
Don’t stop for anything, Mildred.” And with 
this parting charge Mr. Oxford darted off. 
Mildred was rushing after him, when a voice 
from among the crowd of strangers said : 
‘‘Why, Mildred! Mildred Hathaway, is that 
you ? ” And the next instant she was seized by 
two or three city acquaintances, held fast, and 
ovei whelmed with kisses and questions. 


COUNTR Y LIFE. 


241 


Mildred had only time for a few hurried 
answers. She was spending the summer in 
Wyona ; she would call on them soon ; she 
would be glad to see them at the cottage; 
and then she broke from them and joined 
Mr. Boudinot, who was waiting for her at the 
door. 

“ I wish those people had gone on a summer 
excursion to Iceland, before they ever found 
their way down here,” she said, impulsively, as 
she walked rapidly on to the boat. 

“ Why?” Mr. Boudinot asked, coolly. “ Isn’t 
there room enough in Wyona for you all ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose so, but I wish there 
wasn’t” 

“ They appeared very glad to see you,” Mr. 
Boudinot said ; “ and I thought — excuse me. 
Miss Mildred — but I thought I heard you say 
you were glad to see them.” 

“Yes,” Mildred said, excitedly, while with 
the closed parasol she was carrying she beat 
down the delicate grasses growing along the 
path. “ Yes, so I did. I had to be polite, of 
course.” 

“ The requirements of politeness are indeed 
exacting, when they compel us to be untrue,” 
Mr. Boudinot said, in the same cool tone in 
which he had spoken before. 

The color rushed to Mildred’s face ; but they 
21 Q 


242 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


were at the boat, the others were seated, and 
without waiting for help, she sprang on board. 

“ I’m sorr}^ to have kept you waiting,” she 
said ; “ but. Uncle Wallace, I met the Van Arkens 
in the light-house, and I couldn’t get away.” 

“ Held you with cords of affection, did they?” 
Mr. Oxford asked, rather teasingly. 

Mildred did not reply. Still smarting under 
the implied reproof of Mr. Boudinot’s last 
words, she took her seat, resolving to be silent. 
Gray, whose great want in Wyona was plenty 
of playmates, asked, “ Who are the Van Arkens, 
Cousin Mildred ? Have they any little girls ? ” 

“ They are bears,” Mildred said, hotly. “ Yes, 
I believe they have two or three untamed 
cubs.” 

Her angry words were only heard by those 
nearest her — Mrs. Corbett, Gray and Mr. 
Boudinot. 

Mrs. Corbett’s gentle eyes looked at the 
excited girl in surprise and compassion ; but Mr. 
Boudinot, without looking or speaking, instantly 
drew Gray to his side, and began to tell her a 
long story, and in her interest and pleasure the 
little girl soon forgot Cousin Mildred’s queer 
speech. 

Left to herself, Mildred was glad to draw her 
large hat down low over her face, under pretext 
of shielding it from the sun ; and turning her 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


243 


back on the others, she leaned idly over the 
side of the boat, and while she dipped her hands 
in the water, gave herself up to her own bitter, 
regretful thoughts. 

She really had some cause to regret meeting 
the Van Arkens. They were the descendants 
of an old aristocratic family, but were truly, as 
she had once heard her father say, people who pos- 
sessed more dollars and diamonds than culture 
or Christianity. They attended the same church 
as the Hathaways, and were calling acquaint- 
ances, but the two families had little in common. 
And as Mildred recalled Mrs. Van Arken’s silly, 
fashionable chatter, and Mr. Van Arken’s com- 
mon-place jokes and puns, she felt that to have 
to meet and see them often during the beautiful 
days they were to spend so near each other, 
would be a much greater trial than the singing 
of the mosquitoes, that had as yet been her only 
annoyance in Wyona. At the same time she 
was forced to confess that the Van Arkens were 
kind and warm-hearted, and had never failed in 
pleasant attentions >to her mother and herself. 
She knew that for long acquaintance sake, if for 
nothing else, they had a right to expect from 
her friendly consideration in speech and action ; 
and yet how hypocritical and uncharitable she 
had been ! Mildred’s self-analysis was becoming 
a very painful thing, and the sorrowful tears 


244 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


were falling thick and fast into the water, but 
the little party in the boat was, as often happens 
on a pleasure excursion, much quieter in re- 
turning than on leaving home, and no one spoke 
to her, or seemed to notice her silence. 

The wind, that had been so frolicsome when 
they first started in the afternoon, had, as the 
captain predicted, lulled, until now the white 
sails just fluttered lazily, and the boat crawled 
slowly along like an over-burdened snail through 
the motionless water. It was growing chilly, 
too, for a sea fog was rising, and like a cold, 
gray curtain shutting them in. There was a 
general complaint of the cold, and a movement 
to find the shawls and other wraps, safely hid- 
den under the seats. 

“Are you not cold ? ’’ some one asked, kindly, 
and at the same time Mildred’s warm shawl was 
wrapped around her. She had to move and 
look around now, revealing as she did so her 
tear-stained face and moist eyes. Mr. Boudinot 
did not appear to see them. 

“ I am afraid, Mr. Oxford is a truer prophet 
than he wanted to be,’’ he said, lightly, as he sat 
down by her. “ How do you like being be- 
calmed, Miss Mildred ? It doesn’t tend to 
make one very eager for ‘a life on the ocean 
wave, a home on the rolling deep,’ does it?’’ 

Mildred tried to smile. “ I think I would 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


245 


rather be * in the cottage by the sea/ ” she said. 

How soon will we get home, Mr. Boudinot?” 

** I don’t know : predictions are dangerous 
things to risk one’s reputation on, when one is 
in a fog and a calm on the water. Did you 
ever play crambo. Miss Mildred ? Suppose we 
try what we can do by rhyming and quoting, to 
make the time pass pleasantly ? ” 

There was a little buzz of exclamations and 
laughs over Mr. Boudinot’s proposal. But it 
was acted upon, and eyes and minds grew 
bright, troublesome thoughts were forgotten, 
and when a favorable breeze at last sprang up 
and carried them quickly home, they arrived 
there neither tired nor dejected, but animated 
and happy, and quite ready to go on a sail and 
be becalmed again. 

‘‘ Mildred,” Mr. Oxford asked suddenly, two 
or three days after, when they were all sitting 
together on the piazza, when are you going to 
call on your friends, the Van Arkens ?” 

Mildred looked up from the drawing she was 
bending over with a rather impatient, vexed ex- 
pression. “ I don’t think I shall call at all,” she 
said hastily ; “ the Van Arkens are nothing to 
me. I know no reason why I should trouble 
myself to seek them.” 

“ I thought they were friends — your mother’s 
friends at least,” Mr. Oxford replied. “And if 
21 * 


246 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


that is true, a little civility on the part of your 
mother’s daughter will not be out of place.” 

Mildred looked annoyed but remained silent, 
and just then Mr. Boudinot came up, and with a 
pleasant “ good-afternoon ” sat down by Mrs. 
Corbett, between whom and himself a warm 
friendship already existed. 

“ I think, Mildred,” Mr. Oxford resumed in a 
few moments, “ if you have no better reason 
than you have given for not calling, I shall in- 
sist upon your doing so. I am an old-fashioned 
man, I presume, but I certainly believe in a 
young girl’s showing courtesy and attention to 
those older than herself; especially to her 
parents’ friends.” 

Mildred’s face colored angrily. “ Uncle Wal- 
lace,” she exclaimed, “ I think in this matter you 
might let me judge for myself I don’t like the 
Van Arkens. They are purse-proud, common- 
place people. They live for nothing in the 
world but fashion and society. I am old 
enough to choose my own friends, and most 
assuredly I do not choose them.” 

“ Purse-proud, common-place people,” Mr. 
Oxford repeated, with slow emphasis ; “ that is 
not a beautiful character, Mildred, I must allow. 
But your mother’s love of refinement and culti- 
vation is surely as great as yours, and I know 
that she calls on Mrs. Van Arken. Pray tell 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


2-47 


me how it happens that in this case you read 
character so much better than she does ? ” 

Of course, mamma calls on Mrs. Van Arken ; 
we all attend the same church, and there was 
some society mamma got Mrs. Van Arken to 
join. Of course, mamma is polite to her. She 
is always kind and polite to every one.” And 
there Mildred stopped, for it suddenly occurred 
to her that there was perhaps a very great differ- 
ence between her mother and herself in that re- 
spect. She knew Mr. Boudinot and Mrs. Corbett 
were sitting near; she remembered her words 
on the boat, and she was determined now to vindi- 
cate herself, and prove that after all she was right. 

“ I am sure mamma does not regard Mrs. Van 
Arken as anything more than an acquaintance,” 
she said^; “ and I know she would never choose 
to have me to be intimate with her.” 

“ Probably not, and quite as probably Mrs. 
Van Arken would never choose to be intimate 
with you,” Mr. Oxford returned, rather severely. 

But the question is not one of intimacy ; it is, 
if I rightly understand it, one of simple courtesy. 
Did I not the last time I called on your mother 
see a basket of fruit and flowers on her table 
sent by Mrs. Van Arken, Mildred?” 

“ Perhaps : I believe Mrs. Van Arken did send 
her one.” 

“ It was a graceful, beautiful attention on her 


248 ON THE WAY HOME. 

part, then, and it showed a kind spirit. Mildred, 
I do not know what you may be and do in the 
future, but there is one thing at least that I trust 
you will never forget to be ; and that is, a friend 
to all who were your mother’s friends, returning 
all their kindness and attention to her by grate- 
ful consideration and courtesy on your part.” 

Mildred’s head drooped a little, but still she 
would not acknowledge she was wrong. 

“ Uncle Wallace ! ” she exclaimed, vehemently, 

of course I shall treat mamma’s friends prop- 
erly, but life wouldn’t be worth living if I had 
to spend the greater part of it in the society of 
such people as the Van Arkens ; they are as 
dull and uninteresting as this pebble,” and Mil- 
dred picked up a dingy, brown stone lying at 
her feet. 

” Oh, is that it?” Mr. Oxford said, as he rose 
from his seat. “Your brilliancy wakens no 
answering flashes in them, and so you despise 
them. My dear, let me give you a safe rule by 
which to judge yourself in all such cases. You 
find that stone you have just picked up a dull, 
uninteresting thing, unworthy of your notice, 
while, perhaps, there are those who would read 
in it wonderful revelations of beauty and of 
power. If you cannot see the hidden beauty of 
a stone, would it not be well for you to be hum- 
ble when it comes to judging the minds and 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


249 


characters of the men and women around you ? 
And remember this, Mildred, it will apply to 
other things, more precious than stones. 

“ ‘ Diving, and finding no pearls in the sea, 

Blame not the ocean, the fault is in thee.’ ” 

Mildred looked after her uncle, as he walked 
off the piazza, for an instant, and then bent over 
her drawing again. 

Mr. Boudinot and Mrs. Corbett were chatting 
pleasantly, discussing a new book; had they 
heard the conversation between her uncle and 
herself, she wondered ? They did not speak to 
her. And Mildred went on making irregular 
strokes with her pencil, that she knew were 
wrong, and would have to be erased, feeling all 
the while an angry kind of pleasure in making 
them a kind of sympathy between the crooked 
lines and her own wilfulness and perversity. 

Just then, as such things often do, a quaint 
Scotch sentence, she had sometimes heard 
Rachel quote, came into her mind. 

^ “ Ye’re a’ wrang, ye’re a’ wrang, ye’re alto- 

gither a’ wrang ; ” and, pushing aside her draw- 
ing, Mildred threw back her head with the 
silent confession : 

“ Oh, dear, I suppose I am.” 

She fairly started when the next second Mr. 
Boudinot said : 


250 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Miss Mildred, this is a lovely afternoon for 
a row, and you have never been in my boat 
since that first morning when I had the pleasure 
of bringing you across. Will you go now?” 

Mildred looked at him in wonder. “ How 
can you ask me, when you know how wicked 
I am ? ” was her humiliating thought, but she did 
not utter it. Instead, she went for her hat, and 
then silently walked with him through the pleas- 
ant orchard, down to the little dock where his 
boat was moored. 

It was a lovely afternoon, and, quietly saying. 
It will be pleasant on the beach just now,” 
Mr. Boudinot turned the boat in that direction, 
and soon, with easy, leisurely stroke, they 
reached the other shore. 

No one was on the beach where they landed. 
Only a short distance from them, and the white 
shore was gay with strollers, but the spot where 
they were was quiet. A few sea-birds that 
skimmed the waves, or walked lightly along 
the wet sands, remained to hint of the joy of 
life, and of him who guided their trackless 
flights aright. 

“Will you sit down. Miss Mildred?” Mr. 
Boudinot asked, as he unfolded the heavy plaid 
he had brought from the boat, and spread it on 
the sand. 

And Mildred sat down in an indifferent, pre- 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


251 


occupied manner, and gazed absently off at the 
sea. She was in no mood to talk just then, 
and, as if he understood her, Mr. Boudinot 
troubled her with few words. After a little 
while, however, Mildred turned and looked at 
him. 

‘‘ Mr. Boudinot,” she said, slowly, in an ear- 
nest and yet timid voice, “ you are a minister ? ” 

“Yes, Miss Mildred.” 

“ Then perhaps you know — I wish you would 
tell me — ” and there Mildred stopped, and turn- 
ing her face from him, looked off again on the 
tossing, foaming waters. 

“ Tell you what. Miss Mildred ? It will give 
me pleasure to tell you anything I know, that 
you do not. What do you wish to know now?” 

“ This,” and Mildred looked at him with seri- 
ous, troubled eyes : “ how can any one live in 
this world and yet be a Christian ?” 

“What do you mean by a Christian?” Mr. 
Boudinot asked, gently. 

“ I mean — ^you know what I mean — I don’t 
mean a common Christian, like the people who 
read their Bibles only on Sundays and go to 
church, and then on all the other days just act, 
and talk and live like everybody else. I don’t 
mean like them, Mr. Boudinot.” 

“ No? like whom then. Miss Mildred?” 

“ Like — ” Mildred hesitated a moment, “ like 


252 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Christ himself, I mean,” she said, in a low, 
reverent voice. 

A little silence followed her words. Mr. 
Boudinot did not break it by either look or 
speech, and, in a few moments, Mildred went 
on : 

‘‘ I get so troubled sometimes ; I am so troub- 
led now. I want to be a Christian, a real Chris- 
tian — I want to do right. You know the verse, 
Mr. Boudinot, ‘ Whatsoever he saith unto you, 
do it' Dr. Gilman gave me that for my watch- 
word ; and I do want to be true to it, but it is 
such hard work : it’s up-hill all the way. I no 
sooner get through with one hard duty, than 
another starts up. If it isn’t teaching in Sunday- 
school, it’s going to see people I don’t like; it’s 
always something. And the worst of it is — ” 
and Mildred’s voice trembled and her eyes 
filled, “ I not only fail in doing what is right, 
but I am all the time saying and doing what is 
wrong. I get cross and angry; I say and do 
unkind, disagreeable things ; and I get so tired 
of it all sometimes, that it seems as if I must 
give .up — as if I could not go on fighting and 
struggling to the end.” And here Mildred’s 
voice choked, and the tears dropped thick and 
fast: and still Mr. Boudinot neither moved nor 
spoke. What shall I do, Mr. Boudinot?” 
Mildred asked, earnestly, after a little pause. 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


253 


If you are a minister you must know. Is it 
all a mistake, my thinking myself a Christian ? 
and if it is not a mistake, why am I not a better 
and a happier one ? Is there some secret that I 
don’t know, that would help me?, and if there 
is, won’t you tell me?” 

Mr. Boudinot did not answer in words. 

Taking his Testament from his pocket, he 
found a certain chapter, and marking a sentence 
with his pencil, placed the book in Mildred’s 
lap. And looking at the .marked passage 
through her tears, Mildred read, “Abide in me.” 

Slowly Mildred read and re-read the three 
little words ; then she looked up at Mr. Bou- 
dinot. 

“ Is that it ? ” she asked. “ Don’t I abide in 
him,' Mr. Boudinot?” 

“ Do you think you do ? ” he asked, kindly. 
“ Do you think you live as close to him as he 
wants — as he bids you to live ? ” 

“ How can I get closer? ” Mildred questioned, 
anxiously. “ I pray, and I read my Bible ; and 
I try to obey him ; what can I do more ? ” 

“ Do you trust him. Miss Mildred ? ” 

Mildred hesitated. “ I hope so — I don’t know,’* 
she said, sadly. “ What is it to trust ? what do 
you mean by it, Mr. Boudinot ? ” 

“ What do you think he means ? ” he answered, 
gently. 

22 


2:4 


ON THE IV A Y HOME. 


“ Everything,” Mildred said, softly. 

Yes ; that is a good answer. The child-like 
love and trust he asks of us does include every- 
thing else. When you give him that. Miss Mil- 
dred, instead of struggles, you will have peace ; 
instead of the hard bondage of duty, you will 
have the glad service of love. And then, instead 
of your watchword being to you what it is now, 
a stern battle-cry and call to conflict, it will be 
like the tender voice of a loving guide who, go- 
ing through the darkness before, calls to you 
ever and anon, that you may know what course 
to take ; what path to follow as you journey 
homeward.” 

Mildred looked at him with eyes that smiled 
through tears. “ Thank you, Mr. Boudinot. I 
think you are right,” she said, humbly, ” but” — 
and her voice was full of surprise — ” how could 
you know how it seemed to me now ? ” 

It was a beautiful smile that answered her 
first. ” Do you think you are travelling a path 
that was never trodden before ? ” he asked. “Ah, 
Miss Mildred, from the city of Destruction to 
the Celestial city, there is but one straight road ; 
and the experiences of all who tread it are much 
alike — differing only, as they wander from or 
draw closer to their guide.” 

There was silence again between them for a 
little while, but presently Mr. Boudinot spoke. 


255 


COUNTRY LIFE. 

** I am afraid I ought not to keep you here 
much longer, Miss Mildred,” he said ; “ but — 
have I touched the source of your trouble ? are 
there any more questions that I can help you to 
answer ? you know I will be glad to do so, if I 
may.” 

Thank you,” Mildred answered, gratefully; 
“ you have helped me, Mr. Boudinot ; but I was 
just thinking — there are so many little things — 
little every-day actions that perplex me. You 
remember what you said to me about politeness, 
the day we went to the light-house ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I was thinking of that,” Mildred continued, 
in a thoughtful voice. We meet people, and 
we don’t care for them ; meeting them does not 
really give us the least pleasure ; and yet we 
must pretend to be pleased — we must say we are 
glad — or else we must seem very impolite, and 
rude. I don’t want to be a hypocrite, but I was 
one when I met the Van Arkens, and it puzzles 
me, for I don’t know how to help it.” 

Mr. Boudinot smiled. “ Suppose we tr>’ to 
solve your puzzle by the help of the three 
little words we have just been considering,” he 
said, kindly. 

“Abide in me,” Mildred repeated, wonder- 
ingly. “ How can they help me here, Mr. Bou- 
dinot?” 


256 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


He answered her question with another. 

“ How can they help helping you ? that is, if 
you obey them. Miss Mildred, is not the great 
cause of the insincerity and hypocrisy you speak 
of, a want of interest and kind feeling for others? 
They may not be very congenial — we may not 
find them particularly interesting ; but if we 
obey our Master and ‘ abide in him,’ will it not 
follow that we will love what he loves ? The 
more we grow like him, the less we will think 
any one either common-place or uninteresting, 
since all are precious in his sight. The polite- 
ness of society is perhaps often false, but it 
is at least an imitation of what Christ meant 
should be a beautiful reality, when he bade us 
prove that we were his disciples by having love 
one for another.” 

” But you cannot help seeing people’s faults 
and imperfections, Mr. Boudinot. And then, 
there is another thing : is it right to criticise and 
judge them ? ” 

“Would a Christian, one who followed his 
Master closely, ever wish to do so, save in the 
-spirit of that Master?” Mr. Boudinot asked, 
gently. 

Mildred drew a long breath. “ You are right, 
I know,” she said, sadly ; “ but the inclination to 
criticise, ridicule, and laugh at people is certainly 
a great temptation.” 


COUNTRY LIFE. 


257 


“ Yes ; but he who delivers from temptation 
can surely help us here.” 

Some people must be found fault with, and 
exposed though,” Mildred urged. “I don’t 
suppose we need pretend that every grain of 
sand we see is a pearl, need we ? ” 

No ; I don’t suppose we need pretend any- 
thing, Miss Mildred. We have only to be what 
our Bible bids us — patient, pitiful, and courteous, 
loving as brethren. Those in authority are often 
called upon to rebuke the faults of others. But 
for us, in our quiet, every-day life, in our inter- 
course with others, and in our remarks about 
them, when they are not present, let us not 
forget that the Christian’s definition of courtesy 
is, the charity that thinketh no evil.” 

Mildred’s voice was very humble, as she turned 
towards him, saying, I think I understand : 
thank you, Mr. Boudinot.” 

Then, Miss Mildred, let us remember what 
should follow our understanding. * If ye know 
these things, happy are ye if ye do them.’ ” 

Yes; I know,” she said, earnestly, and I 
will try.” 

He smiled as he arose, and extended his 
hand to help her. 

“ I believe we agreed a few days ago, that 
Shakespeare was a good authority,” he said, 
pleasantly. “ Do you remember this ? ‘ I will 

22’^ R 


258 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


chide no breather in the world, but myself, 
against whom I know most faults.’ Our words 
will seldom lack the grace of kindness if we 
act on that principle. Now, Miss Mildred, on 
our way home, I will give you your first lesson 
in rowing.” 




CHAPTER XII. 


THE LAKE IN THE WOOD, 


Of all the lights you can carry in your face, joy will reach 
the farthest out to sea .” — Henry Ward Beecher. 


My God, I thank thee who hast made 
The earth so bright ; 

So full of splendor and of joy. 

Beauty and light ; 

So many glorious things are here, 

Noble and right ! ” — Adelaide Proctor, 



NCLE WALLACE ! ” and with radiant 


face, Gray came to Mr. Oxford’s side. 


Uncle Wallace, I am eleven years old on 
Thursday. May I have a birthday party ? ” 

“A birthday party, my little girl ; are you so 
anxious to proclaim the fact that you are grow- 
ing old ?” 

“ I’d like to do so,” Gray said innocently. 

Can I, Uncle Wallace ? It will make me so 
happy.” 

“ Will it? Run along then, and consult with 
Mrs. Corbett and Cousin Mildred. I give you 


( 259 ) 


260 


ON THE WA y HOME, 


my consent. Since you must be older, be hap- 
pier if you can.” 

“ Oh, thank you ! thank you ! ” And with a 
dainty touch of her lips to his, Gray sprang 
away. 

Five minutes later her golden head brightened 
Mildred’s open doorway. “ Cousin Mildred,” 
she .said, “will you help me give a birthday 
party ? Uncle Wallace says I may have one.” 

Mildred was writing ; but she laid aside her 
pen, and looked up with a pleasant smile. 

“Come in, dear, and tell me about it,” she 
said. ‘ What kind of a party do you want ? ” 

“Why, a real party. Cousin Mildred; just 
like those we read about in story-books.” 

Mildred smiled. “ It isn’t always easy to 
make real parties correspond with those we read 
about in story-books,” she said, “ but we’ll do 
the best we can. Have you told Mrs. Corbett?” 

“ No ; but I’m going to find her now.” And 
full of pleasure and business, she skipped 
away. 

That evening, Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell, and 
Mr. Boudinot walked over to the “ Wasps’ 
Nest.” And while they sat on the cool, moon- 
lighted piazza, the subject of Gray’s party came 
up for discussion. 

“ What kind of a party shall we have, Mrs. 
Rockwell ? ” Mildred asked. 


THE LAKE IN THE f VO OHS. 261 

Mrs. Rockwell answered, “ Picnics figure ex- 
tensively in story-books, don’t they ? and this is 
j ust the season for them ; why not have a picnic 
for Gray ? ” 

The very thing,” Mr. Oxford said approv- 
ingly. 

“A picnic always includes an excursion some- 
where, doesn’t it?” said Mildred, “and where 
can we go ? ” 

“Alexander-like do you think you have ex- 
hausted the resources of Wyona ? ” Mr. Rock- 
well asked. “ There is the lake in the woods ; 
why not go there ? ” 

Mildred turned to Mr. Boudinot. “ Is it a 
pleasant place ? ” she asked doubtfully. 

“ Yes; a beautiful place,” he answered. “The 
lake does not mind its seclusion at all. Miss 
Mildred. Its waters laugh and sing through 
fhe loneliest days, and, however severe may be 
the drought and heat elsewhere, there is always 
a cool, sweet nook there, full of freshness and 
beauty.” 

There came a far-away look into Mildred’s 
eyes, as if she were seeing not only the lake, but 
something that lay beyond it. 

Before the little company separated for the 
night, however, the party was again referred to, 
and it was decided that its kind should be a pic- 
nic, and its location, the lake in the woods. 


262 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“Miss Gray,” Susan said, on Wednesday 
afternoon, as girl-like she was dancing about 
the kitchen, peeping under covers, and watching 
curiously all Susan’s arrangements, “ Miss 
Gray, any one would think you was the only 
little girl since Eve, that had ever had a birth- 
day. You jest wait a few years, until you hev 
to multiply eleven by three; you won’t be so 
anxious for birthdays then, I can tell you.” 

“ Won’t I ?” Gray asked innocently. “ Why 
not, Susan ? ” 

“ Cos it ain’t nateral to human natur to be,” 
Susan answered philosophically. 

“ Human nature must be very queer,” 
was Gray’s puzzled comment, as she left the 
kitchen ; “ but I am glad of this birthday, any- 
way ; and I don’t believe but I shall always be 
glad of every one I ever have.” 

Susan looked after her with softened eyes. 

“ I dare say you will be,” she soliloquized. “ I 
don’t s’pose sunbeams ever are afraid of growing 
old, and you’re a living sunbeam, if there ever 
was one. I declare I almos’ stop breathin’ 
sometimes, when I think how the marster has 
changed since you came to him. It almos’ 
makes me b’lieve the angels ain’t quite through 
visitin’ this old earth yet. And there’s Mrs. 
Corbett, she thinks as much of you as the mar- 
ster does, and sometimes I almos’ wonder — ” 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


263 


But Susan’s wonderings were cut short by the 
entrance of Peter with a large basket of soft- 
shell crabs, and the urgent necessity of attend- 
ing to him and them immediately. 

Wednesday evening found all the arrange- 
ments completed; the baskets and hampers 
packed ; and all things in readiness for an early 
start next morning. A warm south wind softly 
rustled the tree-tops, and rocked to rest the 
nestling birds ; and with a heart as light and 
free from care as theirs. Gray sought her pillow 
and dropped into a child’s untroubled sleep. 

They were to start early in order to escape a 
ride in the hottest part of the day. 

Susan and Peter were to go first in a wagon 
loaded with the baskets, and Crusoe, to his 
great satisfaction, was accommodated with a seat 
by them. 

A large, roomy rockaway was to carry Mr. 
and Mrs. Rockwell, and little maid Marion, to- 
gether with Mrs. Corbett and Mr. Oxford, and 
Mrs. Van Arken, whom Mildred had meekly 
called upon and invited, with her children, to 
accompany them. 

Mrs. Rockwell’s Sunday-school class, of 
which Gray and Barbara were members, were 
all invited, and Mrs. Corbett’s class of young 
ladies. Of Mildred’s class, Crusoe was voted a 
worthy and all-sufficient representative. 


264 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


How are we all to go ? ” was Gray’s ques- 
tion, as she watched the filling of the open 
wagon, then of the rockaway, and next of the 
light spring wagon, in which Mrs. Corbett’s 
young ladies were all comfortably seated. Her 
question was quickly answered. Round the 
corner, from Mr. Rockwell’s barn, came a cu- 
rious-looking vehicle, that proved on nearer in- 
spection to be a large, blue-painted boat, mounted 
on the body of a substantial farm-wagon. 

“ Queens always ride in state, don’t they ? ** 
Robert said, teasingly, as Gray looked at him 
with wondering eyes. 

“ Do you mean that we are to go in that ? ” 
she asked. 

“ Yes, your majesty, you and your maids of 
honor.” 

There was much laughing and talking, as one 
after another the little girls clambered over the 
sides of the boat, and dropped down on the 
soft hay, with which the bottom was spread. 

Mildred was to go with them, and Robert and 
Mr. Boudinot, on horseback, were to escort the 
two loads of young people ; and, as Robert said, 
keep constantly repeating the figure in the 
cotillion known as “ Ladies, change.” 

All were ready at last, and with gladsome 
hearts they started on their way. There 
was no dust; the woods were beautiful in the 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


265 


sheen and shimmer of their summer dress ; sweet, 
nameless wild flowers brightened the roadsides, 
and birds of many songs flitted from tree top to 
tree top, so that, as one little girl said, “ It seemed 
as if all the birds in the country were going 
a visiting.” 

The little party in the blue boat had a merry 
time. Mildred’s bright nature was all awake to 
play and frolic, and full of sympathy with her 
little companions, she artlessly won their con- 
fidence, and the long ride to all was a great 
pleasure. 

It came quickly to an end. The road 
curved suddenly, wound for a short distance 
through a strip of woodland, denser and darker 
than they had before seen, then stopped ab- 
ruptly; and before them, sparkling in the sun- 
shine, lay the lake of which they were in quest. 
They were the last to arrive; Peter and Susan 
had been there some time ; a swing was already 
hanging from two of the highest trees, and 
standing on the board seat, Crusoe was happily 
employed in twisting himself up in the rope, and 
then untwisting, while he watched with approving 
eyes the unloading of the boat. There was 
plenty to do, both of work and play. Once 
emptied of its happy load, the boat was drawn 
down to the water’s edge and launched; then 
quickly filled again, and a large party went out 
23 


266 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


for a row. The swing claimed others, while 
Mildred started to find Susan. 

It was necessary to have a fire ; so two stout 
posts were speedily procured from the surround- 
ing forest, and driven securely into the ground 
in a cleared open space. A strong forked branch 
was found and laid across them, and from the 
branch the tea-kettle was soon suspended. “ The 
hanging of the crane,” Mr. Boudinot laughingly 
called it. Next Crusoe came with his arms full 
of brushwood, and piled it under the kettle, and 
last of all Gray was called to light her fire. A 
match was carefully struck, and in a moment a 
blue smoke was curling upward, and the red 
flames went wreathing and dancing upwards. 
In addition to their other luxuries, they were to 
have a clam-bake. 

Curiously the little girls stood by and watched 
while the clams were placed mouth downward, 
in a large circle on the ground, and then covered 
with brush and light wood. The fire was 
quickly lighted, and with the assurance that 
under it was the best part of their dinner, they 
were invited to help Mildred and Mrs. Rockwell 
spread the table. 

What a merry feast in the green wood on 
that summer day ! Baskets of luscious summer 
fruits stood by the plates . of smoking clams. 
Deliciously browned chickens divided the hon- 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


267 


ors with loaves of elegant seed-cake. Candies 
stood in tempting proximity to snowy sand- 
wiches, while cups of fragrant coffee competed 
for favor with glasses of ice-cold lemonade. 

The feast was very bountiful, though in 
arrangement it was, as Mr. Oxford suggested, 
very much like the old medley ^ in which a 
strain of ‘Yankee Doodle’ was closely linked with 
‘Oft in the Stilly Night’ ” 

After the dinner the older members of the 
party dropped quietly down in shady spots to 
rest ; a hammock was hung for maid Marion, 
and to the old rhyme, 

Rock-a-bye, baby, in the tree-top,” 

she wandered off to dreamland. Mrs. Corbett 
and her class went out with Robert and Mr. 
Boudinot for a row; and gathering the little 
girls, who were tired of swinging and more 
active exercise, around her, Mildred won fresh 
laurels as a successful story-teller. One story 
after another had been poured into their eager 
ears, and still unsatisfied, the cry at every pause 
was “ More ! ” when Mr. Boudinot came up to 
them with his hands full of water-lilies. “ I am 
glad you have come,” she said, “ for my brain 
begins to feel like a squeezed jelly-bag. Now, 
if any more stories are demanded, I think they 
must be required of you.” 


268 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


He smiled, and sitting down placed the lilies 
in her lap. 

“ How beautiful they are ! ” she said, as she 
bent over them ; “ how exquisitely perfect and 
fragrant ! ” 

“ Yes; as you look at them, can you not un- 
derstand better the symbolism of Solomon’s 
two pillars, and the lily-work that crowned 
them ? ” 

Mildred shook her head a little sadly. “ I 
am afraid those old rites and symbols are all a 
sealed book to me,” she said, truthfully. “ I 
don’t think I understand them much better than 
I do the hieroglyphics I have sometimes seen in 
the Egyptian museum.” 

“ They are easily read, though, when Faith 
brings her glass to bear upon them,” he said, 
gently. “ Of those two pillars. Miss Mildred, 
there are several interpretations : but the one 1 
like best is that which sees in the first pillar a 
type of Christ ; and in the second — made in the 
same likeness — cast in the same mould — a type 
of what the Christian should be, will be, some day, 
when seeing the Master, he becomes like him.” 

Mildred’s face grew very sweet in its tender 
thoughtfulness as she listened. 

“ ‘And upon the top of the pillars was lily 
work,’ ” she repeated, slowly. 

“ Yes ; do not the lilies in your hand, in their 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS, 269 . 

fair, perfect beauty, help you to comprehend 
what a lovely type they are, first of the exquisite 
perfectness and purity of our Great Example, 
and then of the finished copy ?” 

“ Thank you,” Mildred said, as she bent over 
them; “thank you, Mr. Boudinot. I shall re- 
member that thought.” 

“ Mr. Boudinot,” pleaded Gray, who had been 
waiting patiently by his side for a chance to 
speak, “ Mr. Boudinot, won’t you tell us a 
story?’* 

“What would you like it to be about?” he 
asked, kindly. 

“ I don’t know. You have talked to Cousin 
Mildred about lilies; can’t you tell us some- 
thing about roses?” 

“ Roses,” he repeated ; “ do you want to hear 
a very old legend about St. Elizabeth and her 
roses ?” 

“ Oh, yes ! yes ! ” came in a chorus from a 
dozen pairs of rosy lips; and smilingly Mr. 
Boudinot gathered them around him, and re- 
cited the legend : 

“ ‘ Know you not the stately dame ? 

From Wurtburg’s castled height she came. 

And in her basket brings she store 
To satisfy the hungry poor. 

“ ‘ The pages and the courtiers high 

Marked the expense with grudging eye; 

23 ’^ 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


And e’en the Landgrave’s kitchen folk 
In murmurs their displeasure spoke. 

“ ‘Artfully told in Ludwig’s ear. 

The lady’s charities appear 

A weighty evil, as through her 

His household’s rights endangered were. 

“ ‘And he forbade, with cruel mind, 

Such pleasure to his lady kind ; 

Asking in scorn, if it were meet 
A princess should a beggar greet. 

“ ‘ Long to her lord’s stern will she bowed. 
Till upward to the castle loud 
The starving shrieked in their despair; 

No longer then would she forbear. 

“ ‘ Her maid she beckoned stealthily 
To find for her the hidden key; 

Then filled her basket running o’er. 

And glided from the gate once more. 

“ ‘ One of the mischief-loving train 
Of courtiers spied her, not in vain : 

Straight to the knight he made his way. 
The gentle lady to betray. 

“ ‘ Stern Ludwig o’er the drawbridge passed. 
And down the steep rock rode he fast. 
With anger pale, as ’twere with death. 

Woe ! woe ! to poor Elizabeth ! 

“ ‘ She hears her husband’s clanging spurs. 
Kindling with rage his eye meets hers ; 
Trembling she knows not what to dread. 
Her faint limbs move not, droops her head. 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


271 


‘And underneath her apron’s folds 
Her timid hand the basket holds ; 

She reads no mercy in his eyes, 

Heart-broken upon God she cries. 

“ ‘ But Ludwig breaks her silent prayer — 

* Woman ! what hast thou hidden there ? ’ 

And, curbing his wild rage no more. 

The apron from the basket tore. 

“ ‘ Oh ! miracle ! therein are spread 
Fairest of roses white and red ; 

Mercy in Ludwig’s soul is born. 

And fills the place of lordly scorn. 

“ ‘ He cries, subdued his stubborn will, 

‘ Oh ! purest, noblest, love me still ! 

Upon thy blessed errand hie. 

Thy heart’s kind impulse gratify.’ 

“ ‘And still she found her basket’s store. 

All veiled with roses, running o’er; 

And safely through the valley trod. 

She who had put her trust in God.’ ” 

Where did you find that, Boudinot?” asked 
Robert, who, with one or two of the young 
ladies, had strolled up to the listening group. 

“ It’s an old thing ; I came across it the other 
day, in a book of German poems,” Mr. Boudi- 
not answered. Do you like it. Miss Gray ? ” 
‘^Yes,” Gray said, slowly; “but — but she 
didn’t do right to disobey her husband and steal 
from him, did she ? ” 


272 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Robert looked at Mr. Boudinot. “ The one 
weak point in your legend,” he said ; and the 
child’s pure instinct detects it immediately.” 

“ Yes,” Mr. Boudinot answered. “ Perhaps 
that is one of the reasons why we are all bidden 
to become like little children, Hathaway.” 

“ Yes, perhaps. But Gray is waiting for her 
answer, and I confess I’m curious to hear it ; 
for, to own the truth, I don’t think I admire 
your legendary Elizabeth: ‘Unfaith in aught is 
want of faith in all,’ so sings Tennyson, and I 
believe with him.” 

Mr. Boudinot laughed a little as he turned to 
Gray. “ She shall have her answer,” he said. 
“ I’m no Jesuit, Hathaway ; I shall not argue 
that wrong is right, or that the end justifies the 
means. I will only give her one little rule by 
which she may judge always of her own duty, 
as well as, to-day, of St. Elizabeth’s. Gray, it 
is every one’s duty to obey those placed in au- 
thority over them. To obey them, even if in 
so doing they have sometimes to sacrifice their 
own pleasure and inclination, unless such obedi- 
ence would come in direct conflict with the duty 
we owe to God, and with our obedience to his will. 
And when that happens, as it may in a Christian’s 
life, then Peter’s words must be ours: ‘Whether 
it be right in the sight of God to hearken unto 
you more than unto God, judge ye.’ ” 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


273 


There was a moment’s silence, and then a 
bright little girl said : 

‘**She went out to feed the starving, and her 
loaves turned to roses. What good could roses 
do the hungry people?” 

Robert laughed. “ There’s a question in 
political economy Mr. Ruskin ought to be here 
to answer,” he said. “ I tell you, Boudinot, 
these old legends fare badly in the hands of the 
little iconoclasts of this nineteenth century, 
don’t they ?” 

“ Not a grain of the gold is lost, however,” 
Mr. Boudinot answered. “ The story does not 
say that the loaves all became roses,” he ex- 
plained to the little girl ; “ but only that roses 
covered the loaves to hide them from Ludwig’s 
eyes.” 

But wasn’t that deceitful?” asked another 
bright-eyed little girl. 

Mr. Boudinot joined in Robert’s merry 
laugh. 

There never was a legend so torn to pieces 
before, I believe,” he said, pleasantly. ” No, 
Bessie, it was not deceitful in Elizabeth, so long 
as she did not do it ai.d knew nothing about it.” 

We have a great many more loaves of bread 
than we have roses at our house,” said another 
little listener. “ I think it would be nice to ex- 
change bread for roses sometimes.” 


274 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


“ You can, my little lady, if you are true to 
your name.” 

“ What name ? ” 

''The one I just called you by — lady. Do 
you know what it means, Gracie ? ” 

Gracie’s timid “ No, sir,” was followed by a 
shout of ” Tell us : do tell us.” 

“A wiser man than I am has told us that it 
means bread-giver or loaf-giver. So that a true 
lady — and that, I suppose, is what you all mean 
to be — is one who shares her wealth with the 
poor, and who gives generously and gladly of 
her bread to the hungry. And in the path of 
such a lady, Gracie, roses will always bloom. 
They will make her life beautiful and her 
memory precious.” 

" Hi ! hi ! ” exclaimed Crusoe, as he ran up to 
them. " Susan says dere’s lots more ice-cream 
in dat freezin’ ting, and she says if you wants it 
you come along,” and throwing himself on the 
ground, Crusoe rolled like a ball back to Susan, 
ejaculating : 

“ Hi ! hi ! ’pears to me dis is jes’ the biggest 
fun ever I see in my life.” 

Ice-cream ! The word acted on the group of 
little girls like the report of a gun on a flock of 
birds. Away they all flew, and with smiling 
eyes Mildred and the gentlemen looked after 
them. 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


275 


There they go,” said Robert, with a laugh. 

True little daughters of mother Eve, the surest 
way to catch them is with the offer of something 
pleasant to the eyes, and good for food.” 

“You know you wouldn’t say that, if you 
weren’t just longing to be with them,” Mildred 
said, playfully. 

Robert turned and made his sister a grave 
bow. 

“What! my dear lady Disdain! Are you 
yet living ? ” he said. “ Since you are so ready 
with your accusation, it would be a pity not to 
give you a good foundation for it,” and rising, 
with his young lady companions, he strolled 
away. 

The two left behind were quiet for a while ; 
then Mildred broke the silence : 

“ What a pleasant day this has been ! ” 

Her words and voice seemed to arouse Mr. 
Boudinot from a rather sad reverie. 

“ Yes, very,” he answered. “ I v/as just think- 
ing the same thing, Miss Mildred, and wonder- 
ing how often, in years to come, this scene would 
come back to me.” 

“You speak,” Mildred said, timidly, “as if 
you never expected to come here again, Mr. 
Boudinot.” 

“ It is extremely doubtful if I ever do,” was 
his sober reply. 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Why, where will you be ? ” Mildred asked, 
in surprise ; “ this is your home, Mr. Boudinot. 
You are not going to leave it forever, are you?” 

I cannot say for how long I am to leave it,” 
he answered, but — ” 

“ Mildred, Mr. Boudinot,” called Mr. Oxford, 
** come, it is time to start for home.” 

Mr. Boudinot smiled, as springing up and 
turning to assist Mildred, he met her grave eyes. 

Have I cast a shadow over your pleasant 
day ? ” he asked. “ Don’t let me. Miss Mildred. 
I shall be nowhere, I trust, where it will not be 
a joy as well as a duty to be.” 

And though his words and grave manner often 
recurred to Mildred, many days passed before 
she- heard their true explanation. 

Good-night, sunshine,” Mr. Oxford said that 
night, as, at the hour for retiring, he drew Mil- 
dred to his side and kissed her tenderly. 

The girl looked at him with a glad, sparkling 
face. “You have just called Gray, sunbeam, 
and now I am sunshine,” she said, with a happy 
laugh. “ Uncle Wallace, yours ought to be a 
very bright home and heart.” 

“ I am afraid there are a good many shadows 
still lurking in both,” Mr. Oxford replied, with a 
high sigh, “ but what sunshine there is, is due 
solely to you. Mildred, I hope you may always 
be as glad, and as great a source of gladness to 


THE LAKE IN THE WOODS. 


277 


others, as you have been to-day. Good-night, 
my dear.” 

And surprised and touched by this unwonted 
expression of affection from her uncle, with a 
heart as light and untroubled as a child’s, Mildred 
laid her down to sleep. 

24 






CHAPTER XIII. 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


Where Christ brings his cross, he brings his presence ; and 
where he is, none are desolate, and there is no room for 
despair.” — Mrs. Browning. 


HE beautiful summer months glided joy- 



jL 'ously by, and the time was near when Mr. 
and Mrs. Hathaway might be expected home. 
Robert was to meet them on landing, and they 
were to come immediately to Wyona ; and in an 
ecstasy of impatient joy, Mildred waited and 
watched for letters or telegrams, announcing 
their arrival in the city. 

Ohe fair August morning, she ran through the 
orchard into Mrs. Rockwell’s sunny parlor, her 
face all smiles and dimples, and her voice as full 
of gladness as the songs of the birds that were 
singing all around her. 

Have you heard from them, my dear ? ” Mrs. 
Rockwell asked, as she smiled at the girl’s bright 
face. 

No, not yet ; but I know I will to-day. The 
steamer was due yesterday, Uncle Wallace says ; 


( 278 ) 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


279 


so it will surely be in this morning, and by to- 
night,” and Mildred’s face flushed, while her 
voice fairly trembled with joy, by to-night, my 
father and mother will be with me. Oh, little 
maid Marion,” she said, catching up the little 
girl who just then came to her side, “ I hope 
your mamma will never have to leave you and 
go away across the great ocean ; and yet I don’t 
know as I do, either : for then you will miss the 
great joy of welcoming her home. I don’t 
think,” and Mildred looked at Mrs. Rockwell 
with eyes that sparkled and shone through a 
mist of sunny tears, “ I don’t think I was ever 
quite so happy before in my whole life.” 

'Mrs. Rockwell came gently to the young girl’s 
side. “ I am very glad for you,” she said, as 
she kissed her ; ” but, my love, what are you 
going to do through the day ? I am afraid your 
impatient spirit will find it very long to wait 
until the evening train comes in.” 

“ Oh, I’m not going to wait,” Mildred answered, 
brightly ; “ at least,” she added, correcting her- 
self, “ I’m not going to wait in idleness. I’m 
going to keep doing ; and that is what brought 
me here. I want to ask a great favor of you, 
Mrs. Rockwell.” 

“ Granted before you ask it,” Mrs. Rockwell 
said, pleasantly. Now, what is it ? ” 

“ Will you lend me Crusoe, to go to the tele- 


280 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


graph office with me ? Peter is lame, and Uncle 
Wallace said I must not walk through the woods 
alone.” 

But the telegram will be brought to you, 
my dear ; you need not go for it.” 

“Yes, I know; but it may want answering, 
and, anyway, I can’t wait. I must have it the 
minute it comes. 

Once again Mrs. Rockwell’s lips touched the 
girl’s fair brow. “ You shall have Crusoe, cer- 
tainly,” she said, “ but — ” 

“ But won’t you accept of my services in the 
place of his. Miss Mildred?” asked Mr. Bou- 
dinot, as he just then walked in through one of 
the low, open windows. 

“ Kenneth,” exclaimed Mrs. Rockwell, “ why, 
where have you been ? How do you know what 
is wanted ? ” 

“ I’ve been within hearing distance, and I 
know all about it,” he answered, with a smile. 
“ Miss Mildred, do you wish to go at once ? ” 

“ Yes,” Mildred said, “ but,” she added, with a 
blush, “I don’t want to trouble you, Mr. Bou- 
dinot.” 

“You cannot; so we need not waste time 
considering that impossibility.” 

Mrs. Rockwell laughed. “ Kenneth,” she 
said, “ I suppose you will walk through the 
woods ; but when you come home, if you will go 


IN DEEP JVA TEES. 


281 


round by the post-office, I’ll bring the boat across 
the bay, and that will save Mildred the long walk 
over the bridge.” 

“ Yes, that is a good arrangement ; thank you, 
Margaret. Now, Miss Mildred, if you are 
ready — ” 

It was very pleasant walking through the 
beautiful, dim old woods that morning, and Mil- 
dred, as they strolled along, talked gayly of her 
happy home and parents, telling Mr. Boudinot 
more of her young life than he had ever known 
before ; and giving him, unconsciously, at the 
same time, new glimpses of the earnest, beautiful 
girl-character that, lovely in itself, was lovelier 
yet in its hints and promises of what it was to 
ripen into. 

They reached the telegraph office in good 
season; but Mildred’s bright face sobered a 
little when she learned there was no telegram 
for her. 

“ It is early yet,” Mr. Boudinot said, en- 
couragingly ; we will wait a while under the 
trees, and as soon as the message comes, you 
will bring it to us, will you not?” And he 
looked inquiringly at the operator, who an- 
swered pleasantly, “ Certainly.” 

So out under the cool old trees they rested and 
waited in a state of happy impatience for the 
expected message. The morning hours went 
24 -^ 


282 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


by; the sun rose higher and higher; the noon 
train came thundering in, and still no telegram. 

“ Wouldn’t it be best to go home now?” Mr. 
Boudinot asked, kindly. “You may have let- 
ters ; and if a telegram comes later, it will be 
brought to you. I am afraid you will get^ 
very tired if you wait here longer.” 

Mildred was disappointed, but her hopeful 
spirit caught at the suggestion of letters. 

“Yes,” she said, eagerly; “let us go. Per- 
haps mamma had a letter all written, and they 
mailed it as soon as they landed, and then, of 
course. I’ll get it this noon.” 

And so she hurried through the pleasant 
woodland path, sometimes talking, and some- 
times silent, and once breaking out unconsciously 
into the sweet old hymn neither she nor Mr. 
Boudinot would ever hear again without vivid 
memories of that morning’s walk — 

“ ‘ So it may be good for me 
Much afflicted now to be ; 

If thou wilt but tenderly. 

Saviour, comfort me.’ ” 

Milfred stopped in her singing with a happy 
laugh, and looked up at Mr. Boudinot. 

“ I don’t know what made me think of that 
just now,” she said; “it doesn’t suit very well 
with this day, does it? and I don’t like it much 
I don’t like hymns that suggest shadows.” 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


283 


Mr. Boudinot looked at her with thoughtful 
e> es ; but no shadow of approaching sorrow 
suggested itself to him, only a compassionate 
thought of all that in some far-off future Mil- 
dred might have to suffer and to learn. 

The mail had been received and distributed^ 
when they reached the office; the impatient 
crowd that usually thronged it at mail time had 
dispersed, and receiving their own share of let- 
ters and papers from the postmaster, they hur- 
ried away. 

Now see, please, is there anything for me?” 
Mildred said, impatiently. And running over 
the package in his hand, Mr. Boudinot shook 
his head. 

“ Not to-day,” he said, cheerfully. “ Perhaps 
your good things are all to come at once. Miss 
Mildred.” 

Mildred looked sober for a few moments, but 
she quickly rallied. 

“They mean to take me by surprise,” she 
said, with a sunny smile ; “ that’s the explana- 
tion of this silence, I imagine. Well, they’ll find 
I’m not so much surprised, after all ; for I’ll 
surely go to the station to meet them to-night. 
The surprise will be on their side, then, I fancy.” 
And she tripped along through the fields, sweet 
with the newly-mown hay, too happy to be 
much disturbed even by her disappointment. 


284 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


Mrs. Rockwell, with the little boat, was waiting 
for them at the shore, and Mildred greeted her 
with a smile. 

“ I’m disappointed, but not discouraged,” she 
said, lightly, as she sat down, and Mr. Bou- 
dinot pushed off into the bay. “Now let me 
take uncle’s paper, Mr. Boudinot, and I’ll see 
if that lazy steamer is reported.” 

The paper was handed her, and with impa- 
tient fingers she tore off the wrapper. The next 
instant, with a low, wailing cry, she tossed it 
from her, and sank down in the bottom of the 
boat. 

The open paper fluttered to Mr. Boudinot’s 
feet, and lay there, spread out before him ; and 
in one lightning glance he read in large cap- 
itals the heading, ''Terrible disaster at sea . — 
Burning of the City of York. — Passengers and 
crew all lost.” 

It was the steamer in which Mildred’s parents 
were returning ; and in those brief, pitiless 
words he read the story of many crushed hopes 
and stricken lives. 

Tenderly Mrs. Rockwell bent over the pros- 
trate girl, but Mildred only shrank and moaned 
in her despair, 

“ Don’t — don’t speak to me ; only let me 
die.” 

Mrs. Rockwell looked at her brother. “ What 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


285 


shall I do with her?” her pale face questioned. 
But his closed, compressed lips gave her no an- 
swer. He only rowed with desperate energy 
towards the shore. 

It was only a short distance ; they were soon 
there. As the boat struck on the gravelly 
beach, Mildred raised her head. She was not 
weeping, but all light and hope and sunshine 
had faded from her face. Under the weight of 
that crushing sorrow, she seemed to have grown 
gray and old. 

While they waited for the boat to be secured, 
from a tree near the shore there came a sudden 
gush of melody that fairly rippled and trembled 
with joy and life, as if the bird’s heart must find 
expression, or it “ would die of its imprisoned 
gladness.” Milfred gave one swift look up- 
ward, then shuddered and pressed her hands to 
her head. What had she now or evermore to 
do with hope, or joy, or life? 

As she stepped ashore she turned to Mrs. 
Rockwell and her brother. “ Come with me, 
please,” she said ; and without more words 
walked rapidly on to the cottage. 

As they approached it, Mr. Oxford came out 
to meet them, with his hand extended for his 
letters. The story was soon known — there was 
need of few words. 

With a father’s tenderness Mr. Oxford took 


2S6 


ON THE WA y HOME, 


the sorrowing girl in his arms; with a heart that 
ached with and for her, Mrs. Corbett bent over 
her, but still Mildred did not weep. 

“ Life struck sharp on death makes awful lightning.” 

And Mildred stood, like a flower that, in all 
its beauty of color and bloom, is suddenly 
touched by the frost of an autumn night, and 
when the morning sun touches it again, stands 
a drooping, blighted thing. 

Words are feeble when the sorrows of life are 
to be described. Only those who have been 
down into the depths of such an anguish can 
know what it is like. 

With the evening train Robert came. He 
brought a faint suggestion of hope. The first 
report was not correct ; a few passengers were 
known to be saved ; they had been picked up 
by the steamer that brought the direful 
tidings. It was possible that others had been 
rescued by other passing steamers or ships. 

It was decided that Mr. Oxford and Robert 
should go to the city in the morning, seek out 
some of the rescued passengers, and learn if 
there was any hope for them. 

And thus in sad discussions, and in the indul- 
gence of mournful hopes, and heart-breaking 
fears, the slow hours of that first dark night of 
sorrow crept drearily away. 


IN DEEP WATERS, 


287 


Two long, weary days went sadly by. Left 
alone, without the brother and uncle who were 
sharers of her grief, Mildred shut herself away, 
even from the kind friends who were longing to 
soothe and comfort her. She clung to hope ; 
she refused to believe that her parents were lost. 
If tears came, she brushed them resolutely 
away. 

“ I will not cry,” she said, fiercely. “ I know 
they will come back to me ; why should I waste 
my tears ?” 

With the passing of each leaden hour Mrs. 
Corbett saw that the girl drooped more and 
more ; and she prayed for some word that would 
end the terrible suspense. 

It came at last. “ No hope ” was the sad conclu- 
sion of all Mr. Oxford’s searches and inquiries. 
Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway had been seen to drop 
into the ocean together. Until the last angel’s 
trump should sound, and the sea give up its 
dead, they would rest beneath its waves. 

Mrs. Corbett carried Mr. Oxford’s letter up to 
Mildred’s room. The girl was lying on her 
bed. She read her letter, and then turned her 
face to the wall. “ Don’t speak to me,” she im- 
plored ; and with tearful eyes, Mrs. Corbett left 
her, and went down to Mr. Boudinot, who was 
waiting in the parlor. 

It was a dark, gloomy day. The wild, fierce 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


ms 

storm, that is always expected along the At- 
lantic sea-coast near the end of August, was 
evidently close at hand. It did not rain yet, but 
the black, rain-burdened clouds were folded 
drearily over the blue sky ; and from the sea 
came a solemn, dirge-like roar, that told of tem- 
pest-tossed waves. Ever and anon a blast of 
wind shook the house, and rocked the old trees, 
tearing off leaves, and snapping young branches, 
as if it were triumphing in the work of destruc- 
tion. 

Without a tear or a moan Mildred lay a while 
and listened to it ; then, rising, she wrapped her- 
self in her waterproof, and hurried down-stairs. 

Mrs. Corbett met her in the hall. “ Where is 
thee going, my dear ? ” she asked, in surprise. 

To the beach,” was Mildred’s brief answer. 

“ But Mr. Boudinot is in the parlor ; and he 
has been here so many times to see thee. Wilt 
thee not see him now?” 

Mildred shook her head. “ I cannot,” she 
said ; and in despair Mrs. Corbett went back to 
Mr. Boudinot. 

“ What shall I do with her ? ” she asked. 
‘^She does not eat nor sleep; she cannot endure 
this strain much longer. Oh ! I wish Robert 
and Mr. Oxford would come,” and Mrs. Cor- 
bett, usually so peaceful and composed, broke 
down and cried. 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


289 


Where is she going?” Mr. Boudinot asked, 
as through the window he caught sight of Mil- 
dred hurrying along the path. 

To the beach.” 

“To the beach in this weather?” Mr. Bou- 
dinot left his chair, and walked to the door. I 
will go after her,” he said, in a quiet, decided 
voice ; and with a sigh of relief Mrs. Corbett 
saw him start. 

Unconscious that he was following her, heed- 
less of the wind that beat her back, indifferent 
to the storm so perilously near, Mildred hur- 
ried through the lane and reached the beach. 

It was deserted. The great rough waves 
were rushing onward and shoreward, and now 
and then the hoarse cry of some lone sea-bird 
could be heard through the roar of the wind and 
waters. Life, all human life, was far away; 
sheltered in peaceful homes the storm could not 
invade. 

The lonely, dreary scene seemed in sympathy 
with Mildred’s despair. She was exhausted 
from her walk, and throwing herself down under 
one of the rude arbors, covered with oak boughs, 
that were scattered along the beach, she looked 
with hopeless eyes off on the restless sea. Pres- 
ently, as she looked, Mildred’s face changed ; 
the sudden consciousness that that sea was 
sweeping over her parents’ grave rushed over 
25 T 


290 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


her; and burying her face in her hands, she 
shook and trembled, while not only the tears 
she had hitherto suppressed, but passionate 
cries, and even screams, escaped her. 

How long she lay there, unconscious of every- 
thing about her, in that first wild abandonment 
to grief, Mildred never knew. But when her 
sobs and cries ceased from sheer exhaustion, 
and she raised her head, she was startled to see 
Mr. Boudinot standing not far from her, with 
folded arms, gazing with intent eyes upon the 
ocean. He turned as she stirred and came to 
her side. 

“ Oh, why did you come ? ” she said, wearily. 
“ I only want to be alone. Please go away.” 

“ No,” he said, in a very gentle but equally 
firm voice ; “ I shall not go away and leave you 
here. Miss Mildred.” 

Mildred turned from him, and once more 
dropped her face into her hands. I wish you 
would,” she said ; ” I don’t want anything, only 
to die,” and once again the tears and sobs broke 
forth. 

Mr. Boudinot waited until she grew calmer, 
and then, in a low voice, said : 

Hear the verse for to-day. Miss Mildred : 

“ ‘ Fear not, for I have redeemed thee : I have 
called thee by thy name : thou art mine.’ 

“ ‘ When thou passest through the waters, I 


r 


IN DEEP WATERS. 291 

will be with thee : and through the rivers, they 
shall not overflow thee : when thou walkest 
through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; 
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.’ ” 

Mildred looked at him with sad, despairing 
eyes. It isn’t true,” she said, in a weary voice, 
“ for I am in the rivers, and they do over- 
flow.” 

Mr. Boudinot sat down and wrapped the 
shawl he had brought around her. 

“ Miss Mildred,” he said, “ do you know why 
Peter sunk when he tried to walk on the 
• water?” 

She shook her head. 

‘‘ Only because he looked away from the 
Master he was going to meet.” 

A gleam of light brightened Mildred’s dull 
eyes, as she caught his meaning. 

“How could he help it?” she asked, with 
another burst of tears. 

“ His Master had told him how : ' Watch ye, 
and pray.’ And,” Mr. Boudinot went gently 
on, “ when we come into the deep waters, and 
the floods swell around us, if we are overcome, 
is it not because, with Peter, we forget to look 
to Christ ? David’s watchword, ‘ I will lift up 
mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh 
my help,’ must be ours ; or else, when sorrow 
and trouble come, as in his own tender faith- 


292 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


fulness, God suffers them to come to all his 
children, we will surely fail.” 

Mildred had listened silently. 

“ Do you really think it is in that way he let’s 
them come?” she asked, in a choking voice. 

“ In what way, Miss Mildred ? I am afraid I 
do not understand.” 

You said, ‘ tender faithfulness.’ ” 

“Do I think so?” Mr. Boudinot’s grave face 
grew bright with a solemn beauty. “ Yes, Miss 
Mildred, I know so.” 

“ Oh, if I could only believe it,” Mildred 
moaned. “ But it seems so cruel. How can I 
ever bear to think of what my parents suffered? 
How can I ever bear to live my life without 
them ?” 

“ ‘ The Lord thy God will hold thy right hand,’ ” 
Mr. Boudinot repeated. “ Miss Mildred, with 
such a promise to support you, can you not en- 
dure? I know it is very hard,” he went on 
soothingly, “ and yet, hard as it seems, there is 
much of comfort. It was only for a little while 
they suffered. One brief hour, and then with 
Christ forever. Don’t dwell on the darkness of 
that hour of trial : think rather of the brightness 
of that morning, when landing on Eternity’s 
shore Jesus himself stood there to welcome 
them.” 

“ I know they are happy now,” Mildred said. 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


293 


brokenly, but I shall never be happy again. 
If I could only die it would be easy; but I’ve 
got to live, and, oh, what shall I do ? ” 

“ Go and ask Jesus, and he will tell you what 
to do. Miss Mildred. Have you never read of 
the nebulae in the heavens, that look like clouds 
to us, but are the star-dust out of which 
God forms new worlds? Can you not trust 
him, to make this sorrow, severe as it is, break, 
some day, into a blessing?” 

“It will never be less a sorrow,” Mildred 
moaned ; “ I must miss them all my life.” 

“ Yes, and still God’s promise stands true. 
‘As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I 
comfort you.’” 

Once again Mildred shook her head. 

“ No one can do that,” she said. 

“ Trust him,” Mr. Boudinot answered, with 
great gentleness. “ Only believe that he makes 
no promise he is not able to fulfil.” 

“ He may be able,” Mildred said, in the faith- 
lessness of her bitter sorrow, “but he doesn’t 
always do so.” 

“Are you sure?” Mr. Boudinot said, in a 
grave, questioning tone. “Miss Mildred, at- 
tached to all the promises you will find a com- 
mand ; an absolute condition upon which alone 
their fulfilment depends. Do not accuse God’s 
gifts of incompleteness, but question your own 
26 ^ 


294 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


heart, and see if you give the child’s love, which 
alone will entitle you to receive the child’s 
blessing. Remember, he cannot comfort those 
who will not take the balm he offers them. 

“ ‘ That life must walk uncomforted, 

That leans not on his breast ; 

They only know that God is love, 

Who learn that Gk)d is rest.’ ” 

They were very still for a little while, and 
then Mr. Boudinot asked : 

“ Will you not trust him. Miss Mildred ? Will 
you not do your part, and believe that he will 
not forget to do his ? ” 

Mildred’s lips trembled. “Yes, if I can,” she 
said, humbly, “but — I am not strong, Mr. 
Boudinot.”* 

“ No. But the weakness that leans on him 
is a weakness that he loves. You cannot fail, 
when around and underneath you are the ever- 
lasting arms.” 

Mildred .did not answer, but the face she 
turned towards him was sweet and humble, and 
he knew that the bitter, rebellious anguish was 
soothed and quieted. 

“We must go home now,” he said; and in 
compliance with his wish Mildred arose. 

“ If it only wasn’t in the ocean,” she said, as 
her eyes swept over the vast expanse of hungry, 
surging waters. 


IN DEEP WATERS. 


■ 295 


He understood her. They are at rest in the 
Father’s house,” he said, kindly. “ Do you 
think they mind, now, through what gate they 
passed on their way in? Dear Miss Mildred, 
to all these bitter * ifs ’ in life — to all the things we 
would have different, but that no human power 
can change — to all the * whys ’ of mourning hearts 
— there comes but one answer: ‘What I do 
thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know 
hereafter.’ ” 

“ I know,” Mildred said, with a sob, “ but oh, 
it is very hard for us to say in answer, ‘ Even so. 
Father.’ ” 

“Hard, but not impossible. Let us learn to 
say each day, and all the day, ‘Thy will be 
done,’ and then, whether 

“ ‘Under his rainbow or under his rod,’ 

we shall know the peace that passeth under- 
standing.” 

“Thee has done her good,” Mrs. Corbett 
said, gladly, as she met them at the door, and 
Mr. Boudinot waited a moment, while Mildred 
went on to her room. “Thee has done her 
good.” And so it proved. 

Sad, trying days were before Mildred. Days 
rife with changes, and full of mournful mem- 
ories, of unsatisfied yearnings. Through them 
all she would never forget that her part was 


296 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


simply to trust ; and more and more undoubt- 
ingly, as they went slowly by, would she set the 
seal of faith to the assurance of her Bible: 
“ He will not be unmindful of his covenant.” 



i 


CHAPTER XIV. 


CHANGES. 


** Behind every storm of trial, and every cloud of sorrow, is 
the heavenly blue of Christ’s unchangeable love.” — McMillan^ 
Bible in Nature. 

** Life’s sorrows still fluctuate, God’s love does not ; 

And his love is unchanged, when it changes our lot.” 


— Owen Meredith. 



ITH a sad, quiet monotony, very unlike 


V V the freshness and brightness of the early 
summer time, the last days of August glided 
away. Mr. Oxford was in the city with Robert, 
attending to business that could not be neg- 
lected. Mr. Boudinot was also away, and over 
' both the farm-house and cottage a cloud seemed 
to have settled, that human love could neither 
lift nor dispel. 

If Mildred had been less absorbed in her own 
heavy grief, she would have wondered at the 
change in Mrs. Rockwell — at the look of pa- 
tient resignation that was now the prevailing ex- 
pression of her face, and at the gentle gravity 


( 297 ) 


298 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


that veiled the brightness that had made her so 
attractive. 

But the girl’s heart was sore with her own 
recent sorrow, and that others should be sad- 
dened and subdued excited rio wonder. The 
wonder would have been if they had had the 
heart to smile and be glad in a world she was 
finding so darkly colored with trouble and woe. 
So prone are we all to be selfish, in sorrow as in 
joy, and to feel, since flowers bloom not for us, 
it were better they should not bloom at all. 

Mr. Boudinot’s presence was missed at the cot- 
tage, but his absence excited no surprise ; only 
sometimes, in her moments of loneliness and 
despair, Mildred longed for the strong, tender 
words of faith and sympathy with which he had 
so often cheered and upheld her ; and, missing 
them, she turned to her Bible for help. And 
if its sacred pages were then often wet with 
tears, yet from those pages Mildred learned 
many precious lessons, taught as none but the 
Spirit can teach the chastened pupils in the 
school of sorrow — lessons that were to serve, 
not only to soothe the anguish of the present, 
but that were to strengthen her for the new 
trials she was soon to experience. For, once 
again for Mildred the command was to be heard, 

“ In life’s goblet freely press 
The leaves that give it bitterness.” 


CHANGES. 


299 


And once again, blessings that seemed all her 
own were to be withdrawn — withdrawn, that 
she might gain the richer blessing of a humble 
spirit, content to have just what her Father 
pleased. 

She was sitting alone on the piazza one peace- 
ful afternoon, when Susan came to her. 

“ Miss Mildred,” she said, “ the washerwoman 
has jest sent word she can’t bring home the 
clothes to-night, for her baby is dreadfully 
scalded, and they think it’s goin’ to die. She’s 
in great trouble, they say.” 

“ In great trouble ?” How near of kin those 
words seemed to make Mildred and the poor 
washerwoman! Already Mildred’s sorrow was 
enriching her soul with one of its holiest 
fruits — a tender sympathy for all other souls 
that ache and bleed. 

She looked up with a touched, interested face. 

‘Where does she live?” she asked. “ I will 
go and see her ; and, Susan, give me a little 
basket of anything you have that might be use- 
ful to her, will you ? ” 

And rising quickly, Mildred ran up-stairs, 
stopping on her way to speak to Mrs. Corbett, 
who was a prisoner v/ith a headache, and inform 
her of her purpose. 

Mrs. Corbett heard her with pleasure. Any- 
thing that roused and interested Mildred, and 


800 


ON THE WA V HOME, 


took her out of herself, she welcomed as a bless- 
ing to the sorrowing girl ; and cheered by the 
few kind words she spoke, Mildred prepared for 
her walk. It was quite a long and lonely one, 
but it did her good ; and as her light feet hur- 
ried along the way, intent on carrying relief to 
the suffering, Mildred learned a lesson she never 
forgot — that there is no salve for our own 
troubles so sure and soothing as sympathy and 
loving ministrations to others. 

She found the washerwoman’s house without 
difficulty, and as she waited in the open door- 
way, she heard the feeble, wailing cries of the 
suffering child, and the low, soothing voice of 
the poor mother. 

Her gentle knock was answered by a short 
“ Come in ! ” and timidly Mildred entered the 
house. The poor, overworked, distressed wo- 
man looked at her in surprise ; but Mildred soon 
proved her right to be there by her power to 
help and comfort. The poor little baby moaned 
piteously as it lay in its mother’s arms. 

It hasn’t been out of my arms to-day, 
miss,” the tired, discouraged woman said to 
Mildred, as she came to her side. “The doc- 
tor’s done all he can, but he says he can’t save 
it ; and its father’s way fishin’, and there’s no one 
to help me, and sometimes it seems as if my 
heart must just break.” And the great tears fell 


CHANGES. 


301 


down on the baby’s hand as the mother told her 
story. 

“ Let me take the baby,” Mildred said ; and 
with the utmost gentleness she took it from the 
mother. “ Have you eaten anything to-day ? ” 
she asked. 

“No;” the poor woman had had no time nor 
heart to eat. 

“You must now,” Mildred said, decidedly. 
“Take that basket; you will find a nice lunch 
in it, and go make yourself a cup of tea. I will 
keep the baby.” And resting the little head 
tenderly on her arm, Mildred walked slowly up 
and down the room with the little sufferer. 

The mother watched for a few moments, 
until satisfied that her child was in safe hands, 
and then went out for the refreshment she so 
much needed, and Mildred was left alone. 

Through the open windows there came a 
cool, soft wind, sweet with sea-scents and 
piney woodland fragrance ; birds twittered 
drowsily around the house, and bees hummed 
happily as they sought for honey among the 
beds of sweet herbs growing under the windows. 
The day was throbbing with life and beauty, and 
only the moaning baby in her arms reminded 
Mildred of sorrow and of pain. 

By degrees the moans grew feebler; they 
came at longer intervals, each fainter than the 
26 


302 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


one before it. Was the baby going to sleep? 
Mildred thought so, and pillowing its little head 
with still greater tenderness, she sang softly to 
it, as she slowly walked, the sweet, old cradle 
hymn to which so many little ones have been 
rocked to rest — 

“ ‘ Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed, 

Heavenly blessings, without number, 

Gently fall upon thy head.’ ” 

A shadow darkened the doorway while she 
sang, and looking up, Mildred’s face brightened 
with a glad smile as she saw Mr. Boudinot. 

“ I did not know you were here,” he said, in 
surprise. “I only came home this morning, 
and hearing of this accident, came here at once. 
Charlotte used to be one of my mother’s ser- 
vants.” 

“Hush!” Mildred said, with some imper- 
ativeness as he came near her. “ Don’t speak 
loud. I think the poor little thing is asleep.” 

“Asleep.” Mr. Boudinot stooped over and 
looked at the baby face half hidden on Mil- 
dred’s arm. Then he looked quickly up at her. 

Mildred’s face was brighter than he had seen 
it in many days, and eyes and lips smiled as she 
met his glance. 

“I think it must be better,” she said in a 
sweet, gentle voice. “ When I first came it 


CHANGES. 


803 


moaned all the time, but lately it has been so 
quiet, I am sure it must be better.” 

“ Yes,” Mr. Boudinot answered, in a voice 
that, low and grave as it was, was evidently 
touched with some deep feeling. ‘‘ Yes, it is 
better. Let me take it, Miss Mildred, while you 
call its mother.” And very tenderly he took 
the little form from her, and laid it in the cradle 
standing near. 

Forgetful of his request that she would call 
the mother, with doubtful, wondering eyes Mil- 
dred stood and watched him. 

“What do you mean?” she began; and 
then stopping suddenly, she knelt by the cradle, 
and laid her own warm hand on the pure, inno- 
cent baby brow. It was cold. No life was 
throbbing in the waxen temples; and with a 
shiver, caused by a nameless dread, Mildred took 
the tiny hands in hers. They, too, were cold 
and pulseless, and comprehending the truth, 
with a sad cry Mildred’s head drooped over the 
peaceful sleeper. 

“ Oh, the baby — the poor little baby,” she 
said, tearfully ; and then with the tender sympa- 
thy for another’s grief, that sorrow had taught 
her, she looked up at Mr. Boudinot. “ The 
poor mother,” she said; “how can we tell her?’* 

“Where is she?” Mr. Boudinot asked. 

“ I sent her out to get a cup of tea,” was Mil- 


304 


ON THE IVA y HOME, 


dred’s answer ; and quietly saying, “ I will find 
her,” Mr. Boudinot left the room. 

The minutes that passed before his return were 
not long, but they were very solemn. It was Mil- 
dred’s first look upon death ; and as she waited by 
the humble cradle and watched the little sleeper 
whose rest would never again be broken by 
pain or want, a sweet calm stole over her own 
spirit; and her heart was stirred with a solemn 
joy as she remembered that the dear ones she 
was herself mourning, and the baby whose ten- 
der hold on life had but that moment ceased, 
were all alike, not lost, only gone before. 

Holy and peaceful were her thoughts, and 
when Mr. Boudinot returned with the weeping 
mother, Mildred’s hand and heart went out to 
meet her in a sympathy that comforted and 
strengthened. 

“With Jesus,” she said, softly, as she stood 
by the mother’s side. 

Sadly the poor woman looked in her face. 
“ Yes, I know, miss,” she said in broken accents; 
“ but we — that’s left. Ah ! miss, it’s very hard 
— for us.” 

Yes, it was hard. Well did Mildred know 
that. With that bitter knowledge there was 
dawning on her the precious conviction that 

Jesus can repay, 

From his own fulness, all he takes away.” 


CHANGES. 


305 


And to his tender comfort she trusted the poor 
mother. 

Kind, pitying neighbors were summoned by 
Mr. Boudinot. Duties, for which the absent 
father was sorely needed, he took upon himself ; 
going at once to attend to them. And when 
there was no longer any need of her sympathy 
or service, late in the afternoon, Mildred walked 
home alone. 

She scarcely saw Mr. Boudinot the next day ; 
but on the following one he called and walked 
with her to the washerwoman’s. 

The baby was to be 'buried that afternoon. 
Kind hands had made the plain room neat, and 
dressed' the little one in its prettiest dress. 
There was nothing left for Mildred, except to 
place the half-unfolded buds and fragrant flow- 
ers she had brought, over the little heart, of 
whose brief, spotless life they formed a fitting 
type. 

The baby lay as if asleep ; the marble beauty 
of its lips and cheeks a little broken by the pale, 
faded pink in which it was dressed, and which 
was a slip made many years before, and that the 
mother herself had perhaps once worn. It left 
the neck and arms bare, and exposed to view 
a little of the scalded chest. Mildred noted it 
with pitying eyes. 

“ I wish,” she said, as she laid a spray of 
26* u 


306 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


smilax, mingled with creamy rose-buds, over 
the little breast, “ I wish I had a piece of fine 
cambric to spread there.” 

Mr. Boudinot heard her. Quietly he took 
from his pocket a small white box and handed 
it to her. Opening it, Mildred took out a 
dainty, embroidered handkerchief; and as she 
unfolded it, and glanced at the marked corner, 
she read in surprise her own name — Mildred 
Hathaway. 

“ Yes,” Mr. Boudinot said, in his usual quiet 
manner, as she looked at him. “ Yes, it be- 
longs to you : I found it long ago, and intended 
to return it to you to-day. Will it answer now 
for what you want ? ” 

Simply nodding, Mildred spread it with 
gentle touch over' the baby- heart; and 
long years passed before she spoke of it 
again, or learned what hopes were renounced 
when Mr. Boudinot restored it to her, or 
what its burial with the baby symbolized to 
him. 

The quiet funeral was over ; under the green 
turf of the peaceful graveyard all that remained 
here of the baby was laid to rest, there to sleep 
until the voice of the angel should bid it 
awake. 

“ It is early yet,” Mr. Boudinot said, as 
Mildred and he approached the cottage, “ and 


CHANGES. 


307 


the afternoon is so pleasant, would you mind 
going to the old orchard for a while?” 

“ To your study ?” Mildred asked. I would 
like to go. I thought that first Sunday that I 
would go there very often ; but I have found so 
many pleasant places around here, that I have 
never been there since.” 

“ Then we will go there now,” he said ; add- 
ing in an undertone, perhaps for the last time. 
Do you expect to remain in Wyona much 
longer. Miss Mildred?” he asked, presently, 
throwing himself down on the moss carpet near 
her. 

hardly know,” Mildred answered. “We 
expect Uncle Wallace and Robert to-night, and 
then I suppose our plans will be decided.” She 
paused, but Mr. Boudinot did not speak, and 
she went on : “I shall be sorry to go away. 
We have had a beautiful summer, and I shall 
always love Wyona. In the beginning my life, 
here seemed like a long, bright play-time, and 
lately — ” 

“Yes, lately?” Mr. Boudinot said, gently, as 
she stopped. 

She looked at him with eyes that shone 
through a mist of tender tears. 

“ Lately, I think, I have learned here what I 
never knew before : how surely Christ fulfils his 
promises. Do you remember his farewell words 


308 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


to his disciples, Mr. Boudinot ? ‘ I will not 

leave you orphans, I will come to you.’ I 
have thought of them so much of late.” 

“ Yes, I remember them,” Mr. Boudinot an- 
swered. “ Dear Miss Mildred, I am glad, very 
glad, if that promise is being fulfilled to you.” 

“ I don’t always feel so,” was Mildred’s frank, 
humble answer ; “ but I do sometimes, and I 
know, if I only trust him, he will fulfil it per- 
fectly.” 

A few tears dropped as Mildred ceased 
speaking ; and again there was silence in the old 
orchard, broken only by the sighing wind. 

Soon, however, Mildred said again, “ Mr. 
Boudinot, will you be in the city this winter ? ” 
No, Miss Mildred.” 

Mildred^s face clouded. ** I am sorry,” she 
said, with a child’s frankness. “ I want to do a 
great deal of work this winter — for others, I 
mean. And I thought, Mr. Boudinot, you 
would know, and tell me where I could be most 
useful and do most good.” 

He looked at her for a moment ; and then let 
his eyes wander away to the opening, beyond 
which there was a distant, indistinct view of the 
sea. 

“ I would help you gladly if I could,” he said, 
with gentle gravity, but this winter. Miss Mil- 
dred, I shall be far away.” 


CHANGES. 


309 


“ Far away,” Mildred repeated. Where, and 
for how long ? ” she asked, hurriedly. 

He turned and looked at her now. “ Where 
will I be ? On my way to Africa as a mission- 
ary, perhaps already there. For how long? I 
cannot answer that question, Miss Mildred. I 
only know that I have given myself for life, or 
for so long as my Master has need of me, and I 
can serve him there.” 

A look of extreme surprise and bewilderment 
was Mildred’s first answer to his information. 
Then, suddenly, there rushed over her a swift, 
sure perception of all that his going meant for 
her ; of the bitter grief it would be to miss his 
help and friendship, now, when she had learned 
to value them so much. 

“ Have I taken you wholly by surprise ? ” he 
asked. I thought you knew something of this. 
Has Margaret never spoken of what I designed 
to do?” 

“ No,” Mildred answered, through her tears, 
** she never said a word.” 

” Dear Margaret,” and the brother’s eyes grew 
very tender, “ it is very hard for her. Miss Mil- 
dred, when I am gone, I shall give my sister to 
you. She has no sister; will you take that 
place, and try to comfort her ? ” 

“Oh, don’t,” Mildred sobbed, “don’t speak of 
going, Mr. Boudinot.” 


310 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


“ Would you have me go without speaking 
of it? ” he asked in a low voice. 

Mildred turned to him with an earnest, im- 
ploring face. “ I wouldn’t have you go at all,” 
she said, with passionate decision. “ Why will 
you, Mr. Boudinot? Margaret needs you; we 
all need you. There is work enough to do at 
home ; why must you put half the world be- 
tween us ? ” 

“ I brought you here to tell you why,” he said, 
in the low voice that told of stern control over 
his own feelings. 

“ Miss Mildred, years ago, when my mother 
was with me, she consecrated me to Christ. ‘As 
long as he lives, he shall be the Lord’s,’ was her 
vow for me ; solemn and sincere as was the 
Jewish mother’s of old. Through all my life, 
I have looked upon myself as set apart to this 
work. The cry, ‘ Come ye over and help us,’ as 
it rings across the waters from heathen countries, 
has been a personal call to me. For years I 
have studied, and worked, and prayed with this 
end in view. And now, shall I dare draw back, 
and refuse to take up the work to which I was 
vowed, and to which I am pledged ? I cannot 
— must not.” 

“ But,” Mildred urged, “ you can do so much 
here ; more, it seems to me, than many, because 
you have more power. And there are plenty 


CHANGES. 


311 


of other men, less fitted for work here, who can 
go abroad.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” he said, with a sad 
smile. Miss Mildred, the reverse of your 
statement is the truth. There are many earnest, 
self-sacrificing Christian workers here at home ; 
but they have ties and duties that forbid their 
going away. Few are as free as I am ; and it is 
precisely such as I who are needed where I am 
going.” 

“And you will go ? ” Mildred asked the ques- 
tion much as if she was defying him to do so. 

“Yes,” he said, drawing a long breath and 
folding his arms tightly across his breast. “ Y es, 
God helping me, I will go.” 

Mildred did not speak again, but hiding her 
face once more in her hands, she let the sorrowful 
tears have their way. 

“ Don’t,” Mr. Boudinot said, after a long si- 
lence. “ Miss Mildred, I v^ant your help now ; 
don’t make my going harder for me than it 
must of necessity be.” 

Mildred looked up, touched by the tone of 
his voice. 

“ Will it be hard for you ? ” she asked, with a 
child’s simplicity; “ I have only been thinking 
how hard it will be for us.” 

Something in that simple speech threatened 
for a moment to conquer all Mr. Boudinot’s 


312 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


efforts at self-control. Changes, that Mildred 
did not see, swept over his face ; and once his 
lips parted as if to speak, and then were closely, 
sternly compressed. It was but for a minute. 
From whatever cause the storm arose, it was 
quickly, resolutely subdued. 

“ It will be very hard for me,” he said, pres- 
ently, in a quiet voice ; harder than you will 
ever know, Miss Mildred. I did not know my- 
self how hard it might be until this summer.” 
He paused a moment, then rapidly proceeded. 
“ I do not want to think about that. Miss Mil- 
dred, my prayer for both you and myself is, that 
we may never think any service too hard to do 
for him, who counted not his own life dear that 
he might save us ; nor any precious thing too 
precious to be renounced, if loyalty to him calls 
for that renunciation.” 

Mildred heard like one in a dream. That 
prayer too often came back to her in after days, 
when self-love and love to her Saviour came in 
conflict; but just then she scarcely noticed it. 

Must you go soon ? ” she asked, like one 
who wanted to know the worst. 

“ I am appointed to sail the first of October.” 

‘‘And are you going alone ? ” 

“As far as personal friends are concerned, yes. 
I have only knowh within the last two weeks, 
Miss Mildred, where I was to go. When I 


CHANGES. 


313 


offered myself to the Board as a missionary, I 
left them free to choose my field, ‘ Where you 
find my strength is most needed/ I told them ; 
and they have found that need in Africa. You 
know what the climate is there. I do not fear 
it for myself ; I believe I can endure it ; but even 
if Margaret were free, and wished to go with me, 
I know she could not stand it, and I would not 
take her. And so you will understand, always 
when you think of me, why I can ask no one to 
go with me ; why I choose to go alone.” 

Mildred only half understood him. ' 

“ I am very sorry it must be so,” she said, 
simply ; why is it, Mr. Boudinot, that the ser- 
vice of Christ must always cost us so much ? ” 

“ It does not always ; only when our hearts are 
divided,” he answered, sadly. “ Miss Mildred, I 
hope you will often visit this old orchard in the 
future ; but I must return to the city to-morrow, 
and may perhaps never be able to come here 
again. Before we go home, will you join with 
me here, in asking our Father that love to him 
may be the ruling power in our souls ; and his 
grace always, and in all our temptations, suffi- 
cient for us.” 

Rising, without a word, Mildred knelt beneath 
the pleasant shadow of the old trees ; and in all 
her after life she never forgot the prayer in which 
she then joined. Strengthened and soothed by' 
27 


314 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


it, she left her vain, passionate regrets behind 
her, in the orchard, and went home, resolved, in 
the little time that remained before Mr. Bou- 
dinot would leave, to help him and his sister in 
all possible ways. 

Mildred thought that evening, as she watched^ 
for the coming of her brother and uncle, that all 
the trouble that could befall her had already 
come upon her. There was little more to resign, 
she thought, sorrowfully, unconscious of the 
words she was yet to hear that night. 

Robert and Mr. Oxford came, looking tired 
and very serious; but Mildred did not wonder; 
she did not expect them to appear happy. 
When, after a hasty supper, Mr. Oxford turned 
to her and said : 

“ Mildred, I want you to come into the parlor 
with Robert and me,” she followed him fear- 
fully, wondering what she was to hear now. 

She knew soon. Very kindly Mr. Oxford 
told her that on investigating her father’s affairs, 
he had found to his great surprise and grief that 
unfortunate investments and rash speculations 
had so involved his estate, that now, after set- 
tling with creditors and satisfying all just claims, 
there would be little, in fact, nothing, of his 
great wealth left for his children. 

“ So you see, Mildred,” Robert said, as his 
sister looked wohderingly at him, “ you see, in- 


CHANGES. 


315 


stead of being rich people, we are really poor — 
very poor ; and my two hands are what we 
have to depend upon. They are strong and 
willing, however,” the young man added, as he 
spread them out and looked at them with great 
satisfaction. I 

“ Is it really as bad as that ? ” Mildred asked 
her uncle. “ Can’t we keep our house ? ” 

No,” Mr. Oxford answered, my dear, it is 
not so bad as Robert pictures, for you are my 
children now, but I think the house will have to 

go*" 

“ Then what are we to do ? where are we to 
go ? ” Mildred asked, in great distress. 

“You are to come to me,” Mr. Oxford said, 
kindly, as he drew her to his side. “ You would 
be a treasure in any house, whatever cause 
brought you there ; though I am sorry, for your 
sake, it should be such a sad one. Robert is 
through with his studies, and eager to have his 
skill as a physician recognized. Life will not be 
very hard for him, even if he does begin it as a 
poor man ; and you, my dear, must regard me 
as a father, and trust me to take care of you.” 

Mildred rested her head affectionately against 
her uncle. “ I do trust you,” she said, gratefully ; 
“ you are very kind. Uncle Wallace, but I think, 
if I am poor, I ought to work, like other poor 
girls.” 


816 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


How ? if you please.” 

“ I don’t quite know ; it is all so sudden ; but 
there must be something I can do, and I be- 
lieve I should be better and happier if I did it.” 

“ Do you consider your education finished ? ” 

“ No,” Mildred answered, humbly, '‘there is a 
great deal I ought to study and learn yet.” 

“ Then I think we need not talk of any other 
work until that work is done, and well done. 
When we go back to the city, you will go home 
with me; and so this loss of property won’t 
prove a very severe loss after all.” And Mr. 
Oxford kissed her affectionately. 

“ No,” Mildred said, in a voice of deep sad- 
ness ; “ I have lost so much lately, I don’t think 
this additional loss of a few dollars and cents 
matters much.” 

Robert looked at her approvingly. 

“ I am glad you bear it so well, Mildred,” he 
said. “ I really feel proud of you now ; and to 
own the truth, I fairly trembled on the way here, 
when I tried to think how you would take it. 
It won’t make much difference,” he continued, 
encouragingly, “ for Uncle Wallace will take care 
of you now, and in a little while, I’ll make a cosy 
home somewhere, and you shall be mistress of 
it. You shall always be my first care, Mildred, 
dear.” 

Mildred’s heart beat fast, as she listened to 


CHANGES. 


317 


Robert’s kind words, but her sudden resolution 
was not shaken. “ I will let Uncle Wallace take 
care of me until I am able to take that care of 
myself,” she said ; “ but, some day, Robert, I know 
I shall find something to do that will make me 
a help and not a burden in the world. Perhaps,” 
she added, thoughtfully, “ that is why God has 
made us poor; to fit us better for the work he * 
has waiting for us.” 

‘‘We will not continue this discussion,” Mr. 
Oxford said. “ I claim you as my child now, 
Mildred, and you will acknowledge that claim 
as my sister’s daughter should,” and with a kiss 
in which affection and authority were equally 
expressed he let her go. 

Mildred’s thoughts were very sober that 
night, as she sat alone in her quiet room. 
Trials seemed to the girl to have followed one 
another thick and fast. As it was with King 
David, when he sat in the gateway of the Judean 
capital, and one messenger of evil ran quickly 
after the other, so it seemed to be with her. 

27 * 


CHAPTER XV. 


RECONCILED. 

“ I have been more and more convinced, the more I think 
of it, that, in general, pride is at the bottom of all great mis- 
takes.’ ’ — Ruskin . 

I T was near the end of summer now, wanting 
but a day or two to the first of September, 
and by the tenth of September, Mr. Oxford 
decided they would return to the city. All 
felt that the pleasant playtime for them was 
over; even if they remained longer in Wyona, 
they could not know again the freshness and 
gladness of the early summer days they had 
found so beautiful. A shadow had fallen on 
all their lives, but still there were duties await- 
ing them, and patient, faithful work for God and 
man to be performed. And so eyes and thoughts 
turned homeward, and busy preparations for 
going there began. 

Robert and Mr. Boudinot were already in the 
city. It was doubtful if Mr. Boudinot would be 
able to visit his boyhood’s home again — cer- 
tainly not for more than a day or two. And at 
( 318 ) 


RECONCILED. 


319 


Mr. Oxford’s pressing request, Mrs. Rockwell 
decided to accompany them when they returned 
home, and spend the time before her brother’s 
departure with them. So they made their plans, 
quietly, and with humble, chastened hearts, that 
* knew, though joy might fail them, God never 
would. 

It was late in the afternoon of their last day in 
Wyona, when Mrs. Corbett walked hurriedly 
across the piazza and stopped, as she had never 
willingly done before, by Mr. Oxford. A shower 
was evidently fast approaching. The boughs 
of the strong trees were tossing in the freshen- 
ing wind, and black sullen clouds were folded 
in solemn order over the darkened sky. 

“ Mr. Oxford,” she asked, anxiously, “ dost 
thee know where Gray is ? ” 

Mr. Oxford closed the book he had been 
holding, but not reading, and rose from his chair. 

“ Sit down, Mrs. Corbett,” he said, with grave 
politeness. “ No, I have not seen Gray since din- 
ner. Why do you ask ? ” 

” Because she is not in the house, and this 
approaching shower makes me anxious.” 

“ Probably she is at Mrs. Rockwell’s.” 

Mrs. Corbett shook her head. No, I sent 
there to inquire before I came to thee.” 

“With Mildred then?” 

“ Mildred is in her room finishing her packing.” 


322 


.ON THE WA Y HOME. 


storm. Trust me to find her : I will bring her 
to you.” 

But Mrs. Corbett insisted. “ I must go. 
What do I care for the shower when she is in it? 
Oh, thee doesn’t know, thee doesn’t know.” 

Mr. Oxford’s face grew yet paler. 

“ God pity us both. I do know all,” he 
muttered to himself ; but his order to Susan, to 
bring a thick shawl for Mrs. Corbett, was clear 
and peremptory as ever. 

Long as it may take to tell of such things, in 
times of great emergency, the work of many 
minutes is easily compressed into a few; and 
five minutes had not passed since Mrs. Corbett’s 
first appeal to Mr. Oxford, before they were 
driving into the woods, to the place where Peter 
had left Gray. 

The warbling brook, beside which in sweet 
profusion the early autumn flowers were bloom- 
ing, was quickly reached. There were the 
marks of little feet, and the traces of the impa- 
tient, eager little hands as they had bent the 
branches of the tall flowering shrubs, in order 
to obtain their blossoms ;• but Gray herself was 
not to be seen. The woods echoed with 
her name : the thick underwood was care- 
fully searched, but without avail. No answer 
came to their calls, no clue to the child was 
revealed. 


RECONCILED. 


323 


Not far from the brook was a point where 
four roads met : one leading almost directly 
down to the cottage, the other three branching 
off farther and farther into the woods. At this 
place Mr. Oxford and Mrs. Corbett stopped a 
moment, and looked at each other in blank dis- 
may. The fear they had not courage to ex- 
press kept them silent ; but Peter was quick to 
comprehend the situation, and equally quick to 
describe it. 

“ Wal, how, I du declar’,’’ he began : “ it is jest 
the very strangest thing how folks alius will go 
wrong, when they might jest as well go right. 
Here’s that child got turned around I s’pose: 
couldn’t tell north from south in these windin’ 
old woods, and she’s jest gone an’ follered one 
of th^se blind old roads, that runs on an’ on 
into the woods, and never comes out nowhar. 
Wal, it’s the strangest thing.” 

“Which road do you suppose she has gone?” 
Mr. Oxford asked : “ can you see any tracks ? ” 

It was almost dark by this time, for the black 
thunder clouds were spread in dense, sombre 
masses across the heavens ; and the effect in the 
dim woods was that of solemn twilight. Every 
now and then large drops of rain fell on the 
rustling leaves, and the wind swept in fitful, 
angry gusts through the trees. It was difficult 
to see, and though they stooped down, and 


324 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


closely scanned the entrance to each road, they 
could distinguish no prints. 

“ There is but one thing for us to do,” Mr. 
Oxford said : “ we must divide and explore 
these roads separately. Peter, you and Mrs. 
Corbett must drive north with the wagon ; and 
I will go west. If you find no trace of her 
soon, come back and follow the east road.” 
And with these words Mr. Oxford turned hast- 
ily to begin his search. With one spring, before 
Peter could start, Mrs. Corbett was out of the 
wagon. 

“ Drive on,” she ordered. I will take the east 
road.” 

Mr. Oxford heard. With a single step he 
was by her side. 

“ You ! ” he exclaimed. ‘‘Are you mad ? The 
storm is already upon us ; you are even less fit 
than that child to meet it. You must go in the 
wagon. Peter, stop.” 

“ Drive on,” Mrs. Corbett shouted, as Peter 
halted. And thinking he had misunderstood 
Mr. Oxford, Peter touched up his horse, and 
rushed onward. 

“Are you mad ? ” Mr. Oxford asked again. 
“ What can you do here in these dark woods ? ” 

“ Find her,” Mrs. Corbett answered firmly. 
“ Is this a time to think of me ? Go thy way, 
Mr. Oxford, and I will go mine.” 


RECONCILED, 


325 


Never,” he exclaimed passionately. “ We 
will go together. Do you think I will lose 
you too ? ” 

If she heard him, she did not answer. With 
fierce impatience, she hurried along the road, 
while true to his words, Mr. Oxford followed 
close beside her. 

The angry clouds grew heavier and blacker. 
The wind shrieked and howled amid the trees: 
the rain beat against them, while in peal upon 
peal, the thunder rolled in quick succession 
to the flashes of vivid lightning which mo- 
mentarily illumined the dark recesses of the 
woods. Mrs. Corbett rushed on through it 
all. Once Mr. Oxford would have drawn her 
arm through his, but she refused the offered 
support. 

” Hurry,” she panted : and through the rain 
and against the wind they went on. Grad- 
ually the violence of the storm abated : the 
rain fell in gentle, tardy drops, and the wind 
came only at intervals, in long sighing puffs, 
like the sobbing breaths of a child, that, spent 
with passion, has cried itself to sleep. The 
clouds parted slowly, and through their broken 
rifts fell, first the pale dim rays of the far-off 
stars, and then, in peaceful beauty, the white 
light of the full moon. 

The storm was over, but not their anxious 
28 


326 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


search. Weary and exhausted, Mrs. Corbett 
was forced to pause a moment; and Mr. Oxford 
listened impatiently for the coming of Peter. 
Presently Mrs. Corbett spoke. 

“ If she took this road she must have wan- 
dered from it into the woods : she would know 
she was wrong before she had come as far as 
this.” 

‘‘ Yes,” was Mr. Oxford’s short answer. 

“ I shall not follow this road any longer,” 
Mrs. Corbett continued with decision. I am 
going into the woods.” 

I am afraid you are right,” Mr. Oxford 
said ; “ but you are not fit to go farther. Y ou 
are drenched and exhausted now. Wait here 
until Peter comes. I will search the woods.” 

‘‘ No,” she answered firmly, “ I shall not 
wait. I will search this side of the road, Mr. 
Oxford, and thee must take that, and let us 
begin at once.” 

“ You cannot — ” Mr. Oxford began. 

I can and will,” she interrupted. “ I fear 
nothing for myself Go, Mr. Oxford, and let 
me go.” 

Mr. Oxford followed her. “ You may be 
right in thinking Gray has wandered into the 
woods,” he said ; “ but you are not right in 
thinking you can search for her alone. I shall 
not leave you.” 


RECONCILED. 


327 


Please think of the child,” she implored. 

‘‘ I do, and of you too,” he muttered, and she 
urged no more. 

On into the wet woods they tramped — tear- 
ing their way through the thick underbrush, 
slipping sometimes on the damp moss, at others 
hindered by a network of tangled vines and 
briers. 

Desperately, through all, Mrs. Corbett hurried 
on, and Mr. Oxford in the midst of his anxiety 
for Gray, wondered silently how long her 
strength would last, and watched her with com- 
passionate eyes. 

They came presently to a clearing, where the 
trees had been for the most part felled, and the 
way was comparatively open. The moon was 
very bright now, and stopping here they looked 
sharply in every direction, while Mr. Oxford 
loudly shouted “ Gray.” 

Only the echoes answered them, and with 
heavy, despairing hearts they were pressing on, 
when, under the protecting boughs of a great 
oak, their watchful eyes saw something that 
might prove only a shadow, but that filled them 
with hope. 

With a suppressed cry, Mrs. Corbett rushed to 
it. There, under the old tree, her face half- 
hidden by her arm. Gray lay asleep. Her basket 
of wild flowers was overturned beside her, her 


328 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


hat had fallen off, and the tangled, golden curls 
gleamed brightly in the moonlight. 

With a sob, Mrs. Corbett dropped down, ex- 
hausted, beside her. 

Lily, my precious little Lily,” she whispered ; 
“ thank God, I have found thee.” And then her 
own eyes closed, and she lay motionless. 

It was only for a moment, then she rallied and 
sat up ; but in that moment the proud reserve 
Mr. Oxford had maintained for so many days 
was swept away. 

“ Lilian,” he exclaimed, “ are you quite worn 
out ? Speak to me. Promise not to fail now.” 

At the name Mrs. Corbett started, but when 
she spoke, her voice was calm as ever. 

The child is asleep,” she said, ignoring all 
notice of herself ; ” we must get her home as 
soon as possible. Can we find the road and 
Peter, Mr. Oxford?” 

“Yes,” he said, with fierce impatience; “but, 
first, answer me, Lilian ; do you think I do not 
know you ? Do you think I do not know why 
you love this child so devotedly ? ” 

With sad, hopeless eyes she looked at him. 

“ If thee knows,” she pleaded, “ help me to 
get her home.” 

And without another word, Mr. Oxford lifted 
Gray and bore her in his arms steadily through 
the woods to the road. 


RECONCILED. 


329 


Peter soon met them, and in another hour the 
weary, exhausted searchers were safely landed 
at the cottage. There, Mildred and Susan had 
passed several anxious hours ; but at Mrs. Rock- 
well’s thoughtful suggestion, they had neglected 
nothing that could be needed for the comfort of 
the tired party. 

Fires were lighted ; hot baths were ready ; 
and a warm, inviting supper, for which none save 
Peter cared, soon smoked on the table. Gray 
was soon in her bed, rosy and warm, in a 
sound, beautiful slumber. Beyond being thor- 
oughly drenched and tired, she had sustained no 
harm; but even after she was asleep, Mrs. 
Corbett refused to leave her. She herself looked 
miserably pale and spent, but insisted that 
she needed nothing, and at last, at her urgent 
request, Mildred and Mrs. Rockwell left her. It 
was late in the night, and, after the excitement 
of the day, a deep quiet had fallen upon the cot- 
tage, and all its* inmates seemed asleep, when 
Mrs. Corbett opened her door and walked slowly 
down-stairs. 

She was restless and disturbed ; the warm air 
of her room oppressed her ; even Gray’s quiet 
breathing made her nervous ; and with a craving 
for purer air and for nature’s soothing influence, 
she stepped out on the piazza. All was hushed 
and peaceful there; calmly the full moon looked 
8 


330 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


down on the silent earth, and sitting down in a 
large chair Mrs. Corbett rested her head on her 
hand, and gave way to many mournful memories 
and sad, painful thoughts. 

“ Lilian,” said a low voice by her side. 

Once again at that name she started, and 
would have risen, but a detaining hand pre- 
vented her. 

“ No,” Mr. Oxford said, slowly, '' do not go, 
Lilian. After all these wretched, lonely years, 
after this strange way in which our life-paths 
have again crossed, let us have at least one 
friendly talk — let us understand each other, be- 
fore we part again.” 

She did not look at him, nor raise her head 
from her hand. “ What is there to understand ? ” 
she asked, in a sad voice. 

Everything,” he answered, impulsively. 
** Lilian, I have known you since that afternoon 
in early spring, when I first took Gray to the 
hospital. I have wondered since that I did not 
recognize you at our first meeting. And many 
times I have longed to break the silence between 
us, and tell you that I knew you.” 

He paused, and in the same sad voice she said : 

I am sorry, Mr. Oxford. After so many 
years, I did not think thee would know me ; if 
I had, I should never have intruded.” 

It is no question of intrusion,” he said, almost 


RECONCILED. 


331 


angrily. And then more gently, ** Why should 
you think I would not know you, Lilian ? Are 
souls apt to forget each other? ” 

They change, at least,” she answered. Be- 
tween the girl of eighteen and the woman of forty, 
there lies a long period of twenty-two years. 
How could I think that through all that time 
thee would remember me ? ” 

“ Remember you ! ” he said. There has not 
been a day in all that time that I have not 
remembered you. For years and years, with a 
pride and bitterness that I mistook for hatred, 
and lately — ” He. stopped suddenly, but soon, 
in a different voice, began again. 

“ Lilian,” he said, “ when we parted twenty- 
two years ago, it was in bitter anger ; and as I 
look back to what you were then, I recall a 
beautiful but proud and passionate girl. No 
‘ thee ’ and ‘ thou ’ trembled then on your lips, and 
instead of the calm atmosphere that surrounds 
you now, and that reminds me of the mellow 
Indian summer-time, your life was like an April 
day, in which showers and sunbeams seemed 
ever struggling for victory. Then, the bird, I 
thought was to be mine, delighted in the 
brightest colors, and music and song seemed 
a part of her life. Now, she is like one who 
has long forgotten to sing, and the color and 
light have long since faded. Why are you so 


332 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


changed, Lilian? After these long, dreary 
years of silence, will you not at least answer that 
question ? ” 

“ Thy own words have answered it,” she said, 
in the same sad, subdued voice. “ Thee said I 
was a proud, passionate girl. Behold the result 
of yielding to pride and passion. Oh ! ” she 
exclaimed, “ if only, by my own bitter expe- 
rience, I could make all young girls understand 
how surely the lives must be wrecked that yield 
to their baleful power.” 

“ But how ? ” he pleaded, “ how has yours 
been wrecked ? Tell me, Lilian.” 

Thee has a right to know,” she said, sadly. 
“ Does thee remember that day, so long ago, 
when thee came to see me, and reproached me 
so bitterly for being, as thee said, fickle and 
false ? ” 

“ Yes,” was his sad confession; “ I do remem- 
ber it.” 

“ It was a mistake,” she continued, *‘but I was 
too proud and* angry to explain. Just because 
I was so happy, and in my girlish vanity pleased 
with being able to give pleasure and receive ad- 
miration, I had accepted attentions that, had I 
been wiser, I would have rejected. I meant no 
wrong ; even then I was deeply sorry for my 
folly ; but thy reproaches stung me. One little 
word would have explained all; but I would 


RECONCILBJ). 


333 


ofifer no explanation, ask no forgiveness. Thee 
believed all thee said, and left me with the 
bitter words that, willingly, thee would never 
see me again. And in my pride I resolved thee 
never should. The next day I started for Phila- 
delphia, accepting as escort there the very gen- 
tleman to whose attentions thee had objected. 
Why. prolong the story? In three months I 
married him. One year from the time I married 
I was a widow.” 

‘'I knew you married,” Mr. Oxford said; ‘'but 
the name was different.” 

“ Yes; on the death of his mother’s father, he 
took her ‘family name, in order to inherit an old 
family estate.” 

“ But why,” Mr. Oxford persisted, “ why did 
I hear nothing ? Why did not Winthrop tell 
me?” 

“ Winthrop ? ” the tears that Mrs. Corbett had 
suppressed before gathered now, and a sob 
choked her voice. “ It was another part of my 
punishment,” she said, mournfully. ” Winthrop 
was thy true friend; he believed as thee did. 
It was long before he would pardon me; he 
would not see me married. Two days before I 
was, he left for the west. I never saw him 
again.” Some sad tears fell while Mrs. Corbett 
spoke, but brushing them away she went reso- 
lutely on, as if determined now to leave nothing 


334 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


unsaid. Occasionally at long intervals I heard 
from him ; when his child was born he wrote he 
had forgiven me, and given her . my name ; but 
for the last five years not a word came from him, 
and sometimes I think during all that time he 
must have thought me dead. .My life was 
crowded with sorrows: my husband’s parents 
died; property was lost, and my address was 
changed. And Winthrop led a wandering, un- 
settled life, never long in any one place. And 
so letters failed, and a silence like death fell be- 
tween us.” 

“ How did you know at last that he was 
dead ? ” Mr. Oxford asked. 

“ By one of those strange orderings of Provi- 
dence, that we are so ready to call chances,” 
she answered. One day, when visiting a friend, 
she handed me a paper, saying with a laugh, 

“ There’s a Denver paper ; doesn’t thee want 
to see what a Colorado newspaper is like ? ’ 

“I took it indifferently, and opening it, the 
first paragraph I read was the death of Winthrop 
Hastirigs. My heart yearned for my little name- 
sake, and the next day I started for Denver to 
find her. My search was useless. All I could 
learn was that she had been sent east to friends. 
Lonelier than ever, I returned to Philadelphia. 
For a time I hoped to find the. child ; I adver- 
tised extensively, but no answer came, and, late 


RECONCILED. 


335 


in the winter, an impulse I could not resist 
brought me back to my girlhood’s home. I 
never dreamed that Lily was in thy care. No 
thought was further from my mind than that of 
ever seeking or seeing thee again. And then, 
one day, in answer to my advertisement, Mil- 
dred came to me. The education of Winthrop’s 
child, the child for whom I had sought and 
prayed so earnestly, was offered to me. Mildred 
told me how much thee loved her. I had dark- 
ened thy life once. I could not, even if I had the 
right, do so again, by claiming her and taking 
her from thee. I remembered the changes the 
years had wrought : the form of dress and speech 
adopted long ago to please my husband’s pa- 
rents, and I believed I was so disguised that no 
eyes that knew me only in my girlhood would 
ever recognize me; and so I resolved to take 
the comfort and the blessing it seemed to me a 
pitying heavenly Father had sent me. And 
now that all is told,” she said, slowly rising, 
“ forgive me, if thee can, Mr. Oxford, and let me 
go.” 

“ No,” he said, laying his hand firmly on her 
arm, “all is not told yet. You must stay a little 
longer, and hear me now, Lilian.” 

She did not look at him, nor speak. Slowly, 
as she had risen, she dropped again into her 
chair, and waited for his words. 


336 


ON THE IVAY HOME. 


Lilian,” he began, “ in all that you have said 
you have reproached only yourself. Do you 
think I do not know to-night how truly I de- 
serve reproach ? Do you imagine I do not feel 
humbled and self-condemned as I stand here 
beside you ? If on that day, so long ago, you 
were proud, I was still more proud. Passion, 
that I made no effort to control, goaded me on. 
I had no pity for you, I would accept no ex- 
cuses. Oh ! the agony of standing here to- 
night, and knowing how different life might have 
been, if in that fatal hour I had been but a Chris- 
tian, governed by Christ’s Spirit, instead of a 
worldly, haughty man, a slave to my own self- 
will and pride. I left you that morning with a 
heart full of hatred and bitterness; doubting 
you, I learned to doubt all others. For yeaps I 
lived, not only without hope, and without God 
in the world, but also without one purpose that 
was not selfish, without one friend in whose 
truth I believed, or in whose honor I confided. 
Gray’s coming shook me for a moment ; but I 
only steeled myself against her, and grew colder 
and harder than before. It was not until Mil- 
dred dared to come, and with words that, in 
their truthfulness were like arrows, pierced 
the armor of pride in which I was encased, that 
I saw myself in my true light. P'rom that night 
of conflict, of wrestling, I came forth an humbled, 


RECONCILED. 


337 


penitent man. I had never forgiven you ; I did 
forgive you then. And Gray, dear as her own 
innocence and loveliness would have made her, 
became doubly dear, when I remembered it was 
on her alone the love once given to your brother 
and yourself could now be expressed. I never 
expected to see you again; like Winthrop, I 
believed you dead ; and when I recognized you, 
Lilian, I dared not speak. You were so calm, 
so chastened; life’s discipline had so purified 
and exalted you, that I feared to disturb the 
peace in which you seemed to live. And so, I 
have been silent,” he went on, rapidly, “ only 
because I have been hopeless ; but now, that all 
is known, Lilian, tell me, is it too late to ask 
you to fulfil the promise made me so long ago ? 
Now, when life is no longer in its morning, but 
nearing its sunset, will you not forgive the sins 
of the past, and lay your hand in mine, not only 
as my friend, but as my wife ? ” 

Tears shone in Mrs. Corbett’s eyes, as, look- 
ing up at him with a holy smile, she placed her 
hand in the one that he extended. And clasp- 
ing it close, Mr. Oxford whispered : 

“ My Lilian. At last ; after so many years. 
Thank God ; he has been better to me than I 
dared ask or hope.” 

29 


w 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS, 


The whole course of things goes to teach us faith. We 
need only obey. There is guidance for each of us, and by 
lowly listening we shall hear the right word.” — Emerson. 

“ Enough to know that through the winter’s frost, 

And summer’s heat, no seed of truth is lost. 

And every duty pays at last its cost.” — Whittier. 



HE next afternoon Mr. Oxford’s little 


-L family bade good-bye to the seaside cot- 
tage, where they had experienced some of life’s 
sweetest joys, and tasted some of its bitterest 
griefs, and returned to the city. 

Back once more in the home that had once, 
despite its richness, been so full of heart-hunger 
and want, a new change awaited them. 

Through the sadness and gloom that had 
gathered around them, there broke now a beau- 
tiful light, that, like the sunset colors, that some- 
times, after long days of storm, illumine the 
western sky, foretold of future days, that were 
to be radiant with the rest, and joy and con- 
tent God sometimes gives unto his own, after 


( 338 ) 


THE PATTING OF THE WAVS. 


839 


sore troubles have tested them, and sifted the 
gold from the dross. 

Alike in kitchen and parlor the anticipated 
change was welcome. 

‘‘ Wal, now,” Susan said, as, a night or two 
after their return home, she sat with Peter in the 
basement; with a pan of apples in her lap, 
she was neatly paring and quartering, while 
Peter, with his hands clasped over his head, 
and his feet comfortably supported on a chair 
in front of him, watched her approvingly. 
“ Wal, now, it is the very strangest thing, Peter, 
how things du turn round and come out in 
this world, ain’t it, now?” 

“ Humph,” Peter answered, after a moment 
or two of profound thought, “ ’tain’t such a 
drefful strange thing, after all, Susan, when you 
come to think about it. It’s jest what you 
might have knowed would hapen. You jest 
bring one an’ one together, and they’re boun’ to 
make two, don’t you see?” 

Susan tossed her head, and dropped a pared 
apple into a dish on the table beside her with 
considerable force. 

“ I guess all your thinkin’, Peter, never would 
hev thought it out,” she said, contemptuously 
“ I’ll tell you what, when I used to go to school 
there was some drefful hard sums in the old 
’rithmetic ; you couldn’t think ’em out, and you 


340 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


couldn’t work ’em out. You couldn’t du nothin’ 
but jest puzzle your brain over ’em ; but when 
the master tuk hold of ’em he alius worked ’em 
out and brought the answer jest right. And 
then they didn’t seem so drefful hard after all. 
And I guess,” and Susan’s voice grew gentler 
and more reverent than usual, “ I guess the 
Master has been workin’ here, though you and 
me, Peter, ain’t been bright enough to see it 
before.” 

“ Hum !” Peter said, “ hum ! Susan, wal, I du 
s’pose you’re ’bout right. ’Tis strange, that’s 
true as the multiplication table, how things du 
come to pass. But they’re all cornin’ out jest 
right here, and I’m mighty glad they are.” 

“Yes,” Susan assented, as she sliced her 
last apple, and rose to put away her dish. 
“Yes, I’m glad too, Peter. It’s as good as 
pumpkin-pie on Thanksgivin’ day to see the 
master now ; he’s waited a good many years for a 
hum, but I guess he’ll have one at last. And I’m 
glad that you and me will have something to du 
with makin’ it, Peter. For she don’t want no 
changes she says, and so we’ll jest mak’ up our 
minds to grow old along with ’em, and Miss 
Gray she’ll make sunshine for us all.” 

At the same time that Susan was thus ex- 
pressing her opinion, Robert and Mildred were 
sitting together up-stairs in Mr. Oxford’s luxuri- 


THE PATTING OF THE WAYS. 341 

ous library. They had been silent for quite 
a while when Robert spoke. 

“ Mildred,” he said, “ that was a brilliant 
stroke of genius on your part, wasn’t it? I 
mean your selecting Mrs. Corbett’s advertise- 
ment from the thousand and one that, I sup- 
pose, that newspaper contained ; you remember 
it, don’t you ? I shall always believe you were 
inspired when you did it.” 

“Shall' you?” Mildred answered, in the 
dreamy manner that lately Robert had often 
noticed in her. “ It seems to me it was a beau- 
tiful fulfilment of the old promise — ‘ I will in- 
struct thee and teach thee in the way that thou 
shalt go.’ The way was opened, Robert; my 
steps were all ordered ; I had only to go as I 
was sent.” 

“Yes,” Robert said, thoughtfully. “Well, 
Mildred, if ever I am tempted to doubt, as I 
watch the working of the wheels of life, that 
there is a living spirit in them, I shall think of 
all that has happened here and blush for my 
unbelief. And to think,” he added, tenderly, 
“that all this joy has come through you. Just 
because you were brave and true enough to dis- 
regard all consequences to yourself, and speak a 
pitying word for that poor child. I shall always 
be proud of you, my little sister.” 

“ You had to scold pretty hard to make me 
29 ^ 


340 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


couldn’t work ’em out. You couldn’t du nothin’ 
but jest puzzle your brain over ’em ; but when 
the master tuk hold of ’em he alius worked ’em 
out and brought the answer jest right. And 
then they didn’t seem so drefful hard after all. 
And I guess,” and Susan’s voice grew gentler 
and more reverent than usual, “ I guess the 
Master has been workin’ here, though you and 
me, Peter, ain’t been bright enough to see it 
before.” 

Hum !” Peter said, hum ! Susan, wal, I du 
s’pose you’re ’bout right. ’Tis strange, that’s 
true as the multiplication table, how things du 
come to pass. But they’re all cornin’ out jest 
right here, and Pm mighty glad they are.” 

“Yes,” Susan assented, as she sliced her 
last apple, and rose to put away her dish. 
“Yes, Pm glad too, Peter. It’s as good as 
pumpkin-pie on Thanksgivin’ day to see the 
master now ; he’s waited a good many years for a 
hum, but I guess he’ll have one at last. And Pm 
glad that you and me will have something to du 
with makin’ it, Peter. For she don’t want no 
changes she says, and so we’ll jest mak’ up our 
minds to grow old along with ’em, and Miss 
Gray she’ll make sunshine for us all.” 

At the same time that Susan was thus ex- 
pressing her opinion, Robert and Mildred were 
sitting together up-stairs in Mr. Oxford’s luxuri- 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 341 

ous library. They had been silent for quite 
a while when Robert spoke. 

“ Mildred,” he said, “ that was a brilliant 
stroke of genius on your part, wasn’t it? I 
mean your selecting Mrs. Corbett’s advertise- 
ment from the thousand and one that, I sup- 
pose, that newspaper contained ; you remember 
it, don’t you ? I shall always believe you were 
inspired when you did it.” 

“Shall’ you?” Mildred answered, in the 
dreamy manner that lately Robert had often 
noticed in her. “ It seems to me it was a beau- 
tiful fulfilment of the old promise — ‘ I will in- 
struct thee and teach thee in the way that thou 
shalt go.’ The way was opened, Robert; my 
steps were all ordered ; I had only to go as I 
was sent.” 

“Yes,” Robert said, thoughtfully. “Well, 
Mildred, if ever I am tempted to doubt, as I 
watch the working of the wheels of life, that 
there is a living spirit in them, I shall think of 
all that has happened here and blush for my 
unbelief And to think,” he added, tenderly, 
“that all this joy has come through you. Just 
because you were brave and true enough to dis- 
regard all consequences to yourself, and speak a 
pitying word for that poor child. I shall always 
be proud of you, my little sister.” 

“You had to scold pretty hard to make me 
29 ^ 


342 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


speak it,” Mildred said, playfully; “but,” she 
continued, earnestly, “ the consequences to me 
have all been beautiful, Robert. I think it is 
another proof that we need never be afraid to 
perform any duty that God appoints us. And 
yet, I should never have found courage to do it, 
had it not been for the watchword Dr. Gilman 
gave me. Oh ! Robert, how like warp and woof 
we are all woven together, and how little we 
know what results may follow the speaking of 
one little word, the breathing of one true 
prayer.” 

“ I am glad we don’t,” Robert said, gravely. 
“ Did you know,” he asked, in a different voice, 
“ that I have an offer of a position as surgeon 
on a steamer that runs between California and 
Japan ? It is a good chance, and I think I must 
take it.” 

“ Yes, I know,” Mildred said. “ Dear Robert, 
I know it is best, but you must not ask me to 
be glad. I can only think now how I shall miss 
you.” 

“ It is hard to leave you,” Robert said, affec- 
tionately. “ Dear Mildred, you do seem to be torn 
away from all your old moorings, don’t you ? 
But you will have Rachel, still : you know she is 
coming here as housekeeper. And Uncle Wal- 
lace and this new aunt he is going to give us 
will love you like a daughter. Cheer up. Mil- 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


343 


dred ! For my part, I’m ashamed to be down- 
hearted, when I think of Mr. Boudinot Uncle 
Wallace says he never knew a young man as 
full of brilliant promise as he is. And knowing 
that, just think of all he’s leaving, and of the life 
he’s going to — sure, it seems to me, in that fearful 
climate, to end in an early death. And yet see 
how brave, and noble, and unselfish he is, and 
how truly it seems to be his joy to go about his 
Father’s business. Mildred, I think he is what 
you might call a king. But he’ll never be 
crowned in this world. I’m afraid. Well, it’s a 
comfort to believe that, in the other, 

“ ‘ Those that have merited, will bear the palm.’ ” 

The tears and sobs Mildred vainly tried to 
suppress brought Robert to a sudden close, and 
very gently he sought to soothe and quiet her. 

Mildred, if you are going to grieve so, I 
shall be tempted to resign the situation,” he 
said, desperately, and wiping away her tears, 
Mildred promised not to be so weak again ; and 
faithfully was that promise kept. 

Robert’s appointment rendered it necessary 
for him to leave home the first of October. Mr. 
Boudinot was also to sail on the same day, and 
before they left, it was decided that the marriage ' 
all were rejoicing over should take place, and at 
the urgent entreaty of his friends, Mr. Boudinot 
consented to perform the ceremony. 


344 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


If I need anything to make me always re- 
member you with the greatest pleasure, it is just 
that,” Mr. Oxford said. And with a noble dis- 
regard of his own feelings, Mr. Boudinot granted 
his request. 

The few days before the wedding were days 
that Mildred never forgot. Mr. and Mrs. Rock- 
well, and little mard Marion, and Barbara were 
with them, and from Mrs. Rockwell’s sweet, un- 
selfish interest in the happiness of her friends, 
and quiet concealment of her own sorrow, Mil- 
dred learned many precious lessons. Daily she 
grew nearer and dearer to Mrs. Rockwell, and 
daily she grew stronger in faith, and firmer in 
the sweet confidence, 

« ‘ That every cloud that spreads above 
And veileth love, itself is love.’ ” 

She seldom saw Mr. Boudinot in those days, 
and when he was at the house, his time was 
mainly passed with his sister. Mildred felt that 
it should be so, and unselfishly tried not to be 
present at their meetings. And Mr. Boudinot, 
as she rather sadly felt, made no effort to see 
her. 

So the days went surely and swiftly by, as 
days always do, whether we count them with 
glad hearts or sad ones, and the thirtieth of Sep- 
tember dawned upon them. Calm and cloud- 
less in the morning, it became one of those 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 345 

autumn days when everything breathes of rest, 
and nothing of decay, although so late in the 
year. Bright, hardy flowers bloomed in the 
gardens and sheltered nooks, and over the 
houses and among the trees swarmed and 
chirped the birds, which now, that spring and 
summer were past, without one sad note in 
their songs, were spreading their glad wings 
for flight to a sunnier, happier land. 

In from the country, the day before, Mildred 
had brought great branches of burning bushes, 
with long, trailing vines of glowing crimson, 
and leaves tinged with all colors, from sunniest 
gold to richest crimson and brown. 

“ There must be nothing sad in these rooms 
to-morrow,” she said ; and with easy grace and 
skill she twined her vines over mirrors and pic- 
tures, and caused the vases and brackets to glow 
with brilliant colors, the types of life in its fullest, 
ripest prime. 

The work was just done, and Mildred stood 
in the centre of the library, surveying it with 
pleased eyes, when the door opened, and Mr. 
Boudinot and his sister entered. 

“ Will it do ? ” Mildred asked, turning with a 
brighter face than usual to Mrs. Rockwell. 

“ Beautifully,” Mrs. Rockwell answered. “ Here 
is my contribution, Mildred,” and she handed 
her a bunch of long, feathery, waving grasses, 


346 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


through which bright scarlet and yellow berries 
gleamed with brilliant effect. 

“ Bitter-sweet,” Mildred exclaimed, looking at 
it with doubtful eyes. 

“ Don’t you like it ? ” Mrs. Rockwell asked, 
with a smile at once sweet and sad. 

“ Yes, I like it; but — ” 

“But what. Miss Mildred?” Mr. Boudinot 
questioned, pleasantly. 

“ Isn’t it almost too emblematic of what life — 
their life — has been? I would like them to 
forget to-morrow that they had ever had any 
bitter experiences.” 

“They cannot do that, Mildred dear,” Mrs. 
Rockwell said, with a sigh, “ but you need not 
be afraid to have them remember. For them, 

“ ‘ Loss is yielding its long-stored interest, 

And bitter, its long-hid sweet,’ 

and the sunshine of their present brightens 
even the shadows of their past. Life’s emblem 
will not look as mournful to them, as it does, 
perhaps, to us.” And conscious that to her, at 
least, it looked just then very mournful, Mrs. 
Rockwell abruptly left the room, while Mildred 
stood by the table looking, with troubled eyes, 
on her berries. 

“ Will you let me arrange them. Miss Mil- 
dred?” Mr. Boudinot asked. And leaving the 
room, he quickly returned with an exquisite 


THE Parting of the ways. 347 

statue of Faith, of a design Mildred had never 
seen before. 

Upon a broken, ragged rock, Faith, in the 
dress of a pilgrim, stood resting against it. 
The cross, with its solemn shadow, waited beside 
her, while with uplifted eyes and clasped hands, 
she sought for strength to bear it. 

Without a word, while Mildred silently 
watched, Mr. Boudinot placed the statue on the 
table, and taking the bitter-sweet, he scattered it 
over the rock and heaped its glowing colors at 
Faith’s feet. 

“ Do you like this statue. Miss Mildred ? ” he 
asked. 

“Yes, it is very beautiful,” Mildred answered, 
“but what — what do you mean by what you 
have done, Mr. Boudinot?” 

“ Faith is not afraid of life’s bitter-sweet,” he 
answered, with a smile. 

Mildred’s eyes fell a moment, and then, in a 
low voice, came the sad confession : “ But I am.” 

The eyes that watched her just then were 
very full of wishful tenderness, as if one, at least, 
would like to take all the bitter out of her life ; 
but the voice that answered her maintained its 
unbroken calm. 

“ I know,” he said, “ but. Miss Mildred, we 
cannot escape it ; and if our heavenly Father 
sends it, is it not because he deems it needful ? 


348 


ON THE WA Y HOA^E. 


And believing that, can we not endure it, and — 
thank him for it ? ” 

Mildred shook her head. 

“ I don’t think I can,” she said : to me bitter 
is bitter ; I cannot call it sweet.” 

“ He does not ask us t6 do that,” was the 
gentle answer. “He only asks us to take the 
bitter to Christ and let him teach us how to ex- 
tract sweetness from it. Miss Mildred, do you 
know how they make sugar?” 

“ From the sugar-cane ; that is the extent of 
my knowledge,” Mildred said, with a misty 
smile. 

“ Then you have never seen them make it ? 
Once I stood by and watched as the cane, 
still fresh from the warm, sunny fields where it 
had grown, was thrown into strong, iron cylin- 
ders and ruthlessly crushed. Then again I 
watched, while the juice, thus obtained, was 
subjected to a fierce fire, and afterwards, when 
repeated fires had done their work, passed 
through coarse charcoal — this last process to 
refine it and make it more attractive to the eye 
and pleasant to the taste. And as I watched. 
Miss Mildred, a thought came to me that I have 
never forgotten. Not until iron, and fire, and 
charcoal — one of the useful but forbidding arti- 
cles in nature’s laboratory — had done their work, 
was the native sweetness in the cane perfected 


THE PARTING OP THE WAYS. ' 349 

and fit for use. To me, in my ignorance, it 
might have seemed as if other and gentler 
means would have accomplished the same end. 
But the refiner knew better. And as we watch 
these wonderful processes, that are daily re- 
peated on every side of us. Miss Mildred, shall 
we not learn one of the lessons that I truly be- 
lieve they are meant to teach us ? and trust the 
Great Refiner to choose just the right means for 
freeing his children from all their imperfections, 
and making their souls so wholly sweet and 
pure that he can say of them, at last, as the 
sugar-tester did of the last sample brought in 
while I waited with him — ^perfect' ” 

“Thank you,” Mildred said, “thank you, 
Mr. Boudinot. Oh,” she said, sadly, “ if 
everything was not so changed, if Robert and 
you were not going away I should have more 
hope.” 

There was a brief silence ; then he said : 

“ These dark days will not last. Miss Mildred. 
Robert will not be long away ; and life for you 
will yet be very bright and happy. So I believe 
and pray.” 

“ But you — will you never come back ?” Mil- 
dred asked, earnestly. 

“ I cannot tell. But, if ever, probably not in 
many years.” 

“And then,” Mildred said, with trembling 
30 


350 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


lips, “ if after a great many years you do come 
back, where will we all be then ? ” 

She did not know the pain that question 
caused. Neither did she know how bravely 
and unselfishly it had been faced before. Its 
sad possibilities and sadder probabilities all 
met, and answered in the same humble faith in 
which now he answered her. 

“ In the Lord’s hands,” he said, quietly. “ I 
leave you all there. Miss Mildred, and he will 
keep all I trust to him. I am glad you like 
this little statue,” he said, in a lighter tone, 
as he lifted a sprig of bitter-sweet and placed it 
in Faith’s clasped hands, “ for I want to leave it 
with you. Miss Mildred; will you accept it?” 

“For myself?” Mildred asked, with surprised 
eyes and heightened color. 

“Yes, for yourself,” he said, with a kind 
smile. “ I have preached you a great many 
tiresome sermons, I am afraid. Miss Mildred; 
and now, that I am never to preach to you 
again, I want to leave this with you ; and if it 
could speak I would commit one little sentence 
to it, to whisper to you whenever you grow 
weary or discouraged, whenever the way seems 
long, and your heart and faith grow weak.” 

“ What is it ? ” Mildred asked, as he stopped. 

“ Only this — the word of sweet command on 
which faith has often to fasten and cling — ‘ Let 


THE PARTING OF THE WAYS. 


351 


not your heart be troubled, neither let it be 
afraid.’ ” 

“ I will not forget,” Mildred whispered. And 
as just then Gray and Marion came running in 
to see Mr. Boudinot, she went quietly out of the 
room. 

Into that same room, beautiful in its fair 
autumn dress, came next morning Mr. Oxford 
and Mrs. Corbett. And standing there, while 
the autumnal sunshine covered them with its 
gold, Kenneth Boudinot spoke the few solemn 
words that united their long sundered lives in a 
union not even death could break. 

“ O God, we thank Thee for our immortal- 
ity,” prayed Mr. Boudinot. And from the 
hearts that listened, filled as they were with 
conflicting hopes and fears, and sadness and joy, 
there went up the same thanksgiving prayer. 

It was over. The prayer had been offered, 
the blessing invoked. Glad words of hope and 
congratulation had been spoken ; and now, 
before the bright day closed, sadder words must 
be uttered, and sadder hearts must part. 

Robert had decided to take the train that 
night for San Francisco ; and unforeseen circum- 
stances rendered it advisable that Mr. Boudinot 
should go on board his steamer that evening. 

Mrs. Rockwell, it was arranged, should part 
with her brother at the house. He had urged 


352 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


it, knowing well how bitter would be her anguish 
as she watched his ship sail away. Quietly, as 
soon as she could, Mildred stole out of the 
room, leaving the brother and sister together. 

Robert’s going, that at any other time would 
have seemed so sad to the girl, looked light and 
of comparatively little importance when viewed 
by the side of this lifelong separation and fare- 
well. 

Robert whispered his tender, brotherly “ Good- 
bye,” and Mildred watched him as he passed 
down the street, knowing well how sadly she 
should miss him, but knowing too, as surely as 
she could know anything of the future, that he 
would come again. And for him, even while 
her heart ached, it still rejoiced. 

But for Mr. Boudinot. Mildred was not the 
stuff that heroines are made of. She was only a 
young, life-loving girl, for whom the world’s at- 
tractions were very beautiful, and to whom self- 
renunciation and cross-bearing were new and 
terrible realities. To her, Mr. Boudinot’s going 
was like going out of life. This “ farewell,” 
waiting to be said ; the farewell of death. She 
could not rejoice in his consecration to his Mas- 
ter’s service ; she could not be glad to have him 
go to the work to which he was called. And 
the consciousness that she could not, added to 
the girl’s distress. Ah ! perhaps we all place 


THE FARTING OF THE WAYS. 


353 


self before Christ oftener than we know ; and it 
is only trial hours like these, that tear away our 
masks and show us ourselves in all our worldli- 
ness and self-love. 

What passed in that quiet parlor, where Mr. 
Boudinot was closeted with his sister, and her^ 
husband, and maid Marion, Mildred never 
knew. 

Tremblingly she waited at the head of the 
stairs, and when she heard the door open ran 
quickly down. She would not miss that last 
good-bye, though her heart broke after it. 

Mr. Boudinot came out alone, calm, though 
very pale. Silently Mildred came to his side. 
There was no time for words then ; perhaps no 
power. 

“ Good-bye, Miss Mildred,” he said, holding 
her hand in a close, lingering clasp. “ Good- 
bye ; God bless you ! ” 

Then he went away. 

30 * 


X 


CHAPTER XVII. 


QUIET YEARS. 


Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might 
issue thence ? 

Why rush the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? ” 


— Robert Browning. 



‘HERE came now, in Mildred Hathaway’s 


A life, a long, quiet period, marked by few 
changes or incidents of importance. It was like 
the calm, still days that, after the husbandman 
has sown his grain, must follow before the fields 
can wave with the ripened harvest; days in 
which the seed starts up and grows, little heeded 
by our unconscious eyes ; and the spring glides 
on into the summer with sure but noiseless 


steps. 


Outwardly Mildred’s life was that of an ear- 
nest, busy school-girl. Blessed with a good 
mind and perfect health, she threw herself with 
all the ardor of her nature into her studies, and 
two years after her summer in Wyona, graduated 
with the highest honors of her school. 

In those two years her life was not exempt 


( 354 ) 


QUIET YEARS. 


355 


from secret trials and discouragements ; and 
perhaps she might, like many another young 
girl, have yielded to them, had it not been for 
the helpful words that came to her in one of her 
darkest hours. 

“ Sae much studyin’,’’ Rachel said, coming into 
her room one winter afternoon, just as Mildred 
had pushed aside her books, it being too dark 
to read. “ Sae much studyin’, Miss Mildred, dear, 
I’m much afraid the buiks wull wear ye oot.” 

Mildred sighed, and pressed her hands wearily 
to her head. “ It won’t matter much,” she said. 

“ Nae, nae,” Rachel said, “ Miss Mildred, gin 
ye feel sae, ye’d best shut the buiks an’ na open 
them ony mair.” 

“ But I must,” Mildred answered. “ I mean 
to be a teacher some day, Rachel ; I must 
study.” 

“A teacher? aye. Miss Mildred, it’s a noble 
wark, an’ only wants a noble raison at the back 
o’ it to mak’ it glorious.” 

“ What better reason can I have than my de- 
sire to be independent ? ” Mildred asked, a little 
impatiently. 

It’s a guid thing to be independent, my bairn. 
I’ll nae say a word agin that ; but it’s a better 
thing to be wulling to be jus’ wat yer Father 
pleases, an’ to depend on the kindness o’ friends 
gin that is what he chooses for ye.” 


356 ON THE WA Y HOME. 

“Yes,” Mildred answered humbly; “and if 
he chooses it for me, I’ll do it, Rachel. But 
still I must study. You surely won’t tell me 
it’s wrong for me to do that,” she added, with a 
smile. 

“ Nae, Miss Mildred ; I’ll na tell ye it’s wrang 
for ye to male’ the maist o’ yersel’ in every wa\ 
Only, my bairn, I doobt gin it males ye happier 
to do it only for yersel’.” 

“What else can I do, Rachel?” 

“ It’s vera right to wark for yersel’,” Rachel 
answered tenderly, “ but, my bairn, I trow it’s 
only wark deene for the Maister that saitisfies an’ 
brings its ain reward wi’ it.” 

“ I know ; but this is only the preparation 
time with me, Rachel ; some day, when my 
school-days are over, I mean to work for him ; 
but now, you know, I must study.” 

“Ay, for him, Miss Mildred.” 

Mildred thought a moment. “Yes, she 
safd, slowly, “ I hope the result of my studying 
will all tell for him in the end.” 

“ But I mean now. Miss Mildred, gin yer 
dear mither was wi’ ye, gin there was some 
frien’ vera anxious that ye sud be foun’ perfect in 
a’ things, wud na it mak’ the hard wark pleas- 
ant? Wud na ye study, gin na mair faithfully, 
yet a guid deal mair glaidly ? ” 

“Yes,” was Mildred’s quiet answer. 


QUIET YE AES. 


357 


'^I’m na guid at preachin’, Miss Mildred; I 
dinna ken much about buiks, only ane, but 
whan I read in that, I fin’ this ane little rule, ‘ do 
a’ to the glory o’ God.’ An’, my bairn, gin ye 
tak’ that for yer rule, an’ wark for his praise, an’ 
watch above a’ for his smile, I ken weel yer 
wark wull gro’ licht. It wull be easy then to 
learn the hard lessons that buiks an’ life too may 
offer ye. An’ whan ye hae learned them, Miss 
Mildred, dear, ye wull be saitisfied wi’ his well 
done.” 

Tender, faithful words, better far than flattery 
or injudicious praise ; Mildred treasured them in 
her memory. Henceforth “ for Christ, not self,” 
was the motto she prayed her life might be 
Avorthy to claim as its own. And steadily, as 
she kept it before her, she grew in all that was 
“ pure, lovely, and of good report.” 

And so the school-days went by, and a morn- 
ing came when she 

“ Stood upon the brink of twenty years, 

And looked before and after.” 

What was she to do with her life now ? Rob- 
ert was still away, working hard, and steadily 
rising in his profession ; but though fond and 
proud of Mildred as ever, he was not yet so 
situated that he could make a home for her. 
For months at a time, as surgeon on one of the 
large steamers running between San Francisco 


358 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


and China, he was away; and his visits home 
were always brief. It would not do, as Mrs. 
Oxford kindly but firmly insisted, for the brother 
and sister to execute the plan of which they had 
often dreamed, and live together. Mildred was 
too young to be left, as she must necessarily be, 
much of the time alone in a strange city if she 
went to Robert. So, plainly and surely, that 
door was closed. What remained ? 

Here, in her uncle’s home, she was loved and 
cherished like a daughter. Even Gray, fast grow- 
ing into a sunny, beautiful girlhood, was not 
more tenderly loved than she was. But still it 
was equally true that in that home, now that 
her school-days were over, only an idle, useless 
life awaited her. 

“What shall I do?” was Mildred’s thought; 
“ life was never meant to be one long, idle holi- 
day; somewhere there must be work for me, 
and if so, let me find and do it.” 

Fired with this purpose, Mildred went to the 
lady in whose school she had been educated, 
and asked her assistance in obtaining a situation 
as a teacher. 

“Are you in earnest?” was the lady’s sur- 
prised question. 

“ Never more so,” was Mildred’s decided an- 
swer. 

Mrs. Carleton mused a while. “ It seems as 


QUIET YE AES. 


359 


if the finger of Providence was pointing your 
way,” she §aid, “ for even before your wish is 
known, its fulfilment is assured.” And then 
she told of a letter, received only the day before 
from a friend in the country, asking her to ob- 
tain a governess for her two orphaned grand- 
children. 

“ Will you go there, Mildred ?” Mrs. Carleton 
asked, in some doubt. ** It is a quiet out-of-the- 
way place, and you will have little society, be- 
side nature and books. Still, if you will go, I 
believe you can do much good, for the children 
are young and spoiled, with only their grand- 
mother to control them, and a kind, Christian 
teacher would be a blessing to them.” 

Mildred did not hesitate. If the lady would 
accept her she would go ; and so the important 
matter was decided. 

To Mr. and Mrs. Oxford it was at first a 
source of deep regret. 

‘‘ I gave you permission to apply to Mrs. 
Carleton, I know,” Mr. Oxford said, “ but it was 
only because I believed she was too sensible a 
woman to encourage you in such an absurd 
desire. Mildred, my child, why cannot you be 
content to live like other girls in your station ? 
why will you insist so foolishly on being inde- 
pendent?” 

“It is not the dependence that troubles me 


360 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


now,” Mildred answered, truthfully. that 

were all. Uncle Wallace, I could let you take 
care of me always. I am differently situated 
from many girls, and I cannot be a drone. My 
life was not given to me to be wasted. I must 
do something with it that will make it a bless- 
ing to others, as well as to myself.” 

“ You have done a great deal with it already,” 
Mr. Oxford said, affectionately. “ Well, my 
dear, I shall not oppose you longer: go, if going 
can make you happier. But as soon as you are 
tired come back to me, as you would to a father 
and a father’s house.” 

“ We shall have her back in a few weeks,” 
Mr. Oxford said that evening to his wife. “ She 
is young and romantic. Once set her face to face 
with the stern realities of the work she is so 
anxious to undertake, and the glamour will 
soon fade. She will be content to resign her 
self-imposed duties and come back to us.” 

Mrs. Oxford smiled a little. “ I hope thee 
will prove a true prophet,” she said, in the quaint 
form of speech that still fell naturally from her 
lips, “ but Mildred is not like most other girls : 
she has a higher aim; she is more earnest in her 
purposes. Once let her gird on her armor, and 
I doubt if willingly she ever lays it off” 

“ She may exchange it, though, for another 
kind,” Mr. Oxford answered; “she may marry.” 


QUIET YEARS. 


361 


Yes, we will hope so. But I am afraid if she 
ever does, thee will have to import a husband 
for her from beyond the seas.” 

Mr. Oxford looked at his wife curiously for a 
moment. “'Ah ! sits the wind in that corner?’” 
he said. “ I have sometimes thought so before. 
Well, Lilian, if we cannot interfere, we can still 
pray. He, who remembered us, will not forget 
them.” 

And thus, followed by the prayers of many 
loving hearts, Mildred went forth to her new 
life ; and if, in it, she found plenty of toil, and 
many things to try her strength and test her 
faith, she also found much of joy. Earnestly 
she studied, taught, and prayed. And a little 
poem, Mrs. Rockwell cut from an old news- 
paper, and sent her on her twentieth birthday, 
with the tender words, “ It made me think of 
you, dear,” was but the beautiful expression of 
her own heart’s silent prayer : 

** * Girlhood’s sunny hours are over 
With to-day ; 

They, with all their wayward brightness. 

Pass away ! 

Woman’s earnest path before me 
Lieth straight ; 

Who can tell what grief and anguish 
There await ? 


31 


362 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


“ ‘ Guide me, Father ! God of mercy ! 

On the way : 

Never from thy holy guidance 
Let me stray ! 

Give that meet of joy or sorrow 
Pleaseth thee. 

Whatsoe’er thy will ordaineth 
Best for me. 

** < In the shadow and the darkness 
Be my star. 

In the light, lest radiance dazzle, 

Go not far. 

Make me patient, kind, and gentle, 

Day by, day. 

Teach me how to live more nearly 
As I pray. 

* That my heart so much desireth 
Grant me still. 

If that earnest hope accordeth 
With thy will. 

Should thy mercy quite withhold it. 

Be thou near. 

Let me know thy tender promise 
True and dear. 

‘ Here, upon life’s very threshold, 

Take my heart — 

From thy holy guidance let it 
Ne’er depart. 

When life’s stormy strife is over 
Take me home. 

There to be more fully, truly, 

Thine alone.’ ” 

The heart that thus prayed could not help but 


QUIET YE AES. 


363 


know the blessing of peace ; and tranquilly the 
months and years went by, until the fourth 
autumn since Mr. Oxford’s marriage; the fourth 
since Mr. Boudinot’s departure. Mildred had 
now been teaching two years ; her visits home 
had been few and at long intervals, and her^ 
meetings with Robert too short to be satisfactory. 
Now, the Christmas holidays were approaching, 
and letters came from Mr. and Mrs. Oxford, not 
only asking, but commanding her to come to 
them. Robert would be there, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Rockwell, with little maid Marion and Bar- 
bara, had promised to join them ; and Mildred 
must not disappoint them. 

Gladly Mildred obeyed their summons, and 
the night before Christmas found her in her 
uncle’s home. 

“ Oh ! Mildred ! Cousin Mildred, how you 
have grown ! ” said Gray’s merry voice, as, di- 
vested of her wrappings, Mildred stood in the 
centre of the fond, admiring group. 

“ Grown, you Lily ? ” and Robert playfully 
pulled the curls that, longer than of old, still 
clustered around Gray’s head. How long has 
Mildred Been out of her cradle, I should like to 
know?” 

“I don’t know,” Gray said, a little abashed; 
but she has grown. Mrs. Rockwell, don’t you 
think she has ? ” 


364 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Mrs. Rockwell smiled at the eager questioner. 
“Yes, dear,” she said; “in soul and character, 
if not in size, she has certainly grown.” And 
then, as if speaking her thoughts aloud, she 
said : “ I wish there was some one else here to 
see her to-night ; don’t you. Gray ? ” 

“ Why ; who else could there be ? ” Gray 
asked, with opening eyes. “ We are all here, 
Mrs. Rockwell; whom do you mean?” 

But with a smile, that ended in a sigh, Mrs. 
Rockwell changed the subject, and Gray’s ques- 
tion remained unanswered. 

“What do you hear from Mr. Boudinot?” 
Mr. Oxford asked, while they were all sitting 
around the cheerful fire : a happy group, over 
which the spirit of the Christmas-tide seemed to 
be breathing its blessing of peace and good-will. 
“ What does he say about himself?” 

“ Not much,” Mrs. Rockwell answered, in a 
voice just touched with sadness. “ He is happy 
and interested in his work; but he seldom speaks 
directly of himself ; only, in his last letter, he 
complained of feeling very weak, and I am afraid 
the climate is telling on him.” 

“ He has endured it wonderfully well,” Mr. 
Oxford replied. “ Does he never speak of com- 
ing home ? ” 

Mrs. Rockwell’s only answer was a brief 
“ No ! ” But Mr. Rockwell said : 


QUIET YEATS. 


365 


“The question of coming home will be a 
question of life and death with him, and I am 
afraid in the discussion death will conquer. I 
never knew a man so devoted to his duty, so 
willing to endure trial and privation, if by such 
endurance he can serve his Lord.” 

“Yes,” Mr. Oxford said thoughtfully, “there 
are not many disciples in these days, for whom 
it is happiness enough to be as their Master. 
Lilian, it is time for prayer. What is that old 
hymn by Heber, of which you are so fond? 
Let us sing it to-night. I know of none more 
fully embued with the spirit of our mission- 
ary.” 

There was a little pause; and then on the 
sweet home air, softened by the peace that first 
fell over Bethlehem, rose the words of the grand 
old hymn, 

“ The Son of God goes forth to war, 

A kingly crown to gain.” 

Thus, with memories of the past sadly and 
yet sweetly mingled with the joys of the pres- 
ent, the holidays went by, and the time came 
when once again the friends so dear to each 
other must part. 

“Mildred, are you here?” Robert said, on 
the last day of his stay as he entered the 
library, where his sister and Gray were chatting 
31 * 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


merrily. I want to have a very serious talk 
with you.” 

Gray looked up with a serious face. “ You 
are not going to scold Cousin Mildred, are 
you ? ” she asked. 

“ Suppose I am, you won’t dispute my right to 
do so if she deserves it, will you, lilybud ? ” 

‘‘ I should be sorry to dispute your right, or 
to think you wrong,” Gray said soberly ; “ but I 
love Cousin Mildred, and I don’t want her made 
unhappy.” 

Robert laughed. “I won’t test either your 
faith in me or your devotion to her,” he said. 
“ So run away, golden locks. I am only going to 
have a very serious talk with Mildred ; after that 
I want to finish reading ‘ Hiawatha ’ with you.” 

“ Seriously, Mildred,” he said, as the door 
closed on Gray, “ aren’t you almost tired of the 
quiet life you have been leading for these two 
past years ? ” 

“ No ; why should I be?’* 

“Truly, reasons why you should* be are, I 
think, plenty as sugar plums at Christmas time ; 
but if you must have one specified, why here is 
an excellent one, because it is natural to the 
young to like change.” 

“ I am not unnatural then, for I certainly like 
change. I have enjoyed these holidays with you 
very much.” 


QUIET YEARS. 


367 


But that isn’t what I mean,” Robert per- 
sisted. “ Mildred, I want you to promise to 
stop teaching and come '’home.” 

“But why?” 

“ Why, because we all want you to do so ; 
that, for a reasonable girl, ought to be reason 
enough. And then you were made for better 
things, my dear sister.” 

Mildred pressed her hand playfully over his 
lips. “ Stop ! ” she said, with pretty peremptori- 
ness. “ Robert, of all the crafty, subtle tempta- 
tions in the world, I do think those words, 
‘You were made for better things,’ are the 
strongest. I’ve no doubt the serpent whispered 
them to Eve in Paradise.” 

“ Why, what a positive, fiery little mortal you 
are, Mildred,” Robert said, with a laugh. “ If 
you could silence that whisper in the hearts of 
men, you would do away with all ambition.” 

“ Perhaps, then, I would be as great a bene- 
factor to the world as St. Patrick was to Ireland 
when he banished the snakes,” Mildred, an- 
swered playfully. “ But it does not seem to me 
a lack of ambition, but rather a noble form of it, 
to be content to fill the place to which Christ 
appoints us, and to do the work he gives us. 
Browning has said, 

“ ‘ Be sure that God 

Ne’er dooms to waste^the strength he deigns impart,’ ” 


868 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


“ That’s all very well,” Robert said, in a tone 
that denied his words, and said it was not well 
at all ; “ but, Mildred, if you are satisfied, I am 
not. Here are two of the best years of your life,, 
just wasted — shut away in that old country 
nook ; where, if Rip Van Winkle had been so 
unfortunate as to go to sleep, he’d have slept on 
until this day, for there would never have been 
commotion enough to awake him ; without 
society, without amusements, with just one dull 
old lady and two noisy children to mingle with 
day after day, and week after week, when — 
whether you want me to say it or not — you are 
fitted for better things : Mildred, it makes me 
unhappy, and angry too.” 

Mildred looked at her brother with gentle, 
smiling eyes. “ Do I look as if these two quiet 
years have hurt me, Robert ? ” she asked. 

Robert placed his hand under her chin and 
closely scanned the bright, animated face. 

“ No,” he said, as he released it with a proud 
smile, “ I must own, Mildred, that your face will 
bear keen scrutiny, about as well as any I ever 
saw. But I can’t see your mind and heart, you 
know. I’m sure I’d find specks of rust on them, 
if I could examine them.” 

“ I’ve read, and thought, and prayed,” Mildred 
said slowly ; “ and, Robert, strange as you may 
think it, I believe these two quiet years have 


QUIET YEARS. 


369 


been two of the best in my life. I have helped 
others grow, and I have grown myself ; and the 
experience I have gained will help me to fill bet- 
ter any sphere that in the future I may be placed 
in. Don’t you think so?” 

I know you are fit for any sphere,” he re- 
turned, evasively, “ but, Mildred, I do not like to 
see all your young, beautiful years wasted. 
Don’t you sometimes feel afraid yourself, when 
you remember how swiftly they are going, and 
how soon you will find yourself a sober, middle- 
aged woman ? pushed against the wall, and into 
the corners, to make room for a younger genera- 
tion, who will, I hope, improve their opportu- 
nities better than you do.” 

Mildred’s sweet laugh rang out merrily. 

Twenty-two doesn’t seem so very venerable, 
Robert,” she said, “ and remember I was only 
that this month.” 

''But you won’t stay twenty-two,” Robert 
said, grimly ; " you’ve got to grow older.” 

" Yes. Well, it’s useless to struggle against 
the inevitable, and as the years come, I think I 
can bear their weight. Let me tell you a story, 
Robert. 

“ I went, one beautiful day last spring, into a 
choice fruit orchard, when the trees were in full 
bloom. Apple-blosom snow was drifting with 
every light wind to the ground, and the great 

Y 


370 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


clouds of pink and white flowers shut you in, 
until you seemed in a young and lovely world, 
throbbing with spring-time sweetness, beauty 
and life. 

“ I went again to the orchard a few weeks 
later ; the flowers had all faded and vanished ; in 
their places were the tiniest, hardest, ugliest little 
knobs one. could wish to see ; an emblem, maybe, 
of the middle age with which you threaten me, 
Robert. One did miss the beautiful May blos- 
soms, with their fresh sweetness, and it seemed 
as if Nature was very wasteful, and as if, if she 
managed more wisely, she would be able to let 
the spring-bloom survive the setting of the fruit. 

“ But I went once more to the orchard, on a 
mellow, Indian summer day in the autumn. 
The ground was like a beautiful carpet, so thickly 
was it strewn with the russet and golden and 
crimson-colored fruit. On every side the trees 
stood like monarchs lifting proudly up the jewels 
with which they were crowned. Glad, busy 
hands were gathering the orchard’s wealth, and 
shouts of harvest home rang through the golden 
air. And since then, Robert, I have never been 
afraid to think of growing old, nor disposed to 
deem the flowers of May more precious than the 
fruit of autumn.” 

Robert frowned, and then smiled, as he looked 
at his sister. 


QUIET YEARS. 


371 


You are as bad as your old friend Mr. Bou- 
dinot, in your fancy for parables and similes, 
Mildred,” he said ; “ by the way, do you suppose 
he will ever come back ? ” 

No ; it does not seem likely,” she answered, 
quietly. 

Robert watched her in silence for a minute. 
“I must go and read with Lilybud, now,” he 
said, rising, but first, Mildred, won’t you give 
me a little comfort? Won’t you promise to do 
as we all wish, and come home ? ” 

“ Next June,” she answered, pleasantly, their 
grandmother intends to take the children to 
England, and then my work with them and for 
them will probably end.” 

That’s good news,” Robert said, with a gay 
laugh. I shan’t grudge England that increase 
in her population ; and remember, Mildred, after 
June you are to make no engagements without 
my permission asked and obtained.” And with 
this authoritative command Robert left the 


room. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


*‘And he led them forth by the right way, that they might go 
to a city of habitation .” — Psalms xcvii. 7. 


“ So in the roughest ways ^ 

Thou leadest on to happiness, 

And who to thee doth consecrate his days, 
Trouble shall meet him but to bless. 

The end thereof shall clear and glorious be. 
Though the dull heart fail now to see. 



OUR years and a half had passed since 


A Kenneth Boudinot had parted from home 
and friends, and gone forth a missionary of the 
cross, rejoicing that he was counted worthy to 
bear its message and proclaim its glad tidings. 

Faithfully and unsparingly he had toiled, and 
taught, and prayed ; seeing at first but few re- 
sults from his labors ; but with undaunted faith 
continuing to sow the seed with a generous 
hand, never doubting but that, in rich abun- 
dance, the increase would some day be given. 

His own sufferings, the loneliness, and home- 
sick longings that at times, like fierce storms, 


(372) 


AFTER MANY DA VS. 


373 


swept over his soul, he counted of little mo- 
ment. Bravely and unselfishly he bore them, 
knowing that in the end his Lord’s enter into 
my joy ” would compensate for all. But of late 
his health, which at first had wonderfully with- 
stood the change of climate, had been slowly 
failing. The weakness of which Mrs. Rockwell 
spoke constantly increased, until fever pros- 
trated him, and when its rage abated, it left him 
too spent and wan to rally from its effects. 

It was spring, now — glad, beautiful spring- 
time — in his far away northern home; but where 
he was, under the burning African sky, dry, 
parching heat consumed his little remaining 
strength. He could neither teach, nor work, and 
often had scarcely power to pray, and day by 
day life seemed to ebb more surely and rapidly 
away. 

He was resting one day on his verandah, his 
Bible in his hand, and its tender promises of a 
heavenly home, mingling with mournful memo- 
ries of the home of his boyhood, when the noble 
English surgeon, who was just then stationed on 
the coast, came to his side. 

Stronger to-day than yesterday ? ” he ques- 
tioned, as he felt his pulse; “ why, Boudinot, 
man, this will never do. Where has your 
strength gone to ? ” 

Mr. Boudinot smiled faintly. “ It seems to 
32 


374 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


have taken a leave of absence,” he said. I am 
sadly conscious of wanting it, doctor, but it is 
beyond my power to summon it back.” 

“ Nonsense ; no such thing, Boudinot. It 
will come back in all its old vigor, if you will 
only give it a fair chance. I am going to change 
my treatment to-day, and give you a new pre- 
scription. Will you promise to follow it faith- 
fully?” 

“ Certainly ; haven’t you always found me an 
obedient patient, doctor? I may make wry 
faces over your bitter potions, but I never re- 
fuse them.” 

“ No ? I wish as much could be said for all 
my patients. But my medicine now will not be 
bitter, Boudinot. I am sure you will find it 
agreeable ; and before prescribing it, I want to 
impress you with the fact that on it is written 
‘ Ne Plus Ultra.’ There is nothing beyond it ; 
if you refuse it you must take the consequences, 
for it is the last resource of my skill.” 

“ I hope you are not going to prescribe some 
African simple for me,” Mr. Boudinot said, play- 
fully. “ Well, doctor, whatever it may be. I’ll 
be good and take it. Now give it.” 

I have your promise, remember that ; well, 
here it is — go home.” 

The feeble pulse, the doctor was even then 
counting, gave a sudden bound. The blood 


AFTER MANY DA YS, 


375 


rushed to the pale face, and the tired heart 
throbbed violently. Many minutes passed be- 
fore Mr. Boudinot opened his eyes or spoke. 
Silently he thought and prayed, and silently his 
faithful friend watched him. 

Presently he spoke. “Are you sure of what 
you said, doctor?” 

“ If, like a witness. I’ve got to swear to my 
words, I must know positively what they were. 
Am I sure of what?” 

“ Of its being the last resource — the last 
chance ? ” 

The doctor eyed him sharply. “You are a 
Christian,” he said, “and can bear the truth. 
Yes, if you stay here one month longer there 
will be no human help for you.” 

“And if I go ?” 

“ If you go now, on the next steamer, I be- 
lieve you will rally fast. The sea-air will build 
you up, and what the sea leaves undone, home 
will surely do.” 

Mr. Boudinot looked doubtful. 

“ I can take a voyage to one of the islands 
near, if sea-air is needed,” he said, “and after 
that I may be able to resume my duties here.” 

“ No ; it will not do, Boudinot. I tell you 
your constitution is weakened. You are no 
longer able to resist this climate. Why, man, 
it will be just throwing your life away to stay 


376 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


herq longer; and whatever philosophers and 
dreamers may say, to one who has it in his 
power, as you have, to ennoble and bless others, 
life is surely worth living.” 

Mr. Boudinot made no answer, and after 
watching him impatiently for a moment, the 
doctor spoke again : 

“You know all now, Boudinot; you must 
decide for yourself. Only let me remind you : 
that though there are crowns for martyrs, self- 
martyrdom is nowhere extolled as blessed, or 
promised a reward.” 

“ I have no desire for martyrdom,” Mr. Bou- 
dinot answered, “but I do desire to do my 
duty. How can I leave my work here, until 
sure I am called away ? ” 

“ If you do not consider your present situa- 
tion call enough, you may rest satisfied that a 
plainer call will not long be wanting,” the doc- 
tor answered, rather harshly. “You have 
worked nobly here, Boudinot, but your useful- 
ness is past. Will it be any advantage to these 
poor natives for you to die among them ? ” 

“ Perhaps not,” Mr. Boudinot said, quietly. 

“ Then obey me, and go away. And though 
I am not a clergyman, let me preach you this 
little bit of a sermon : the life God gives us is a 
sacred thing, not to be resigned, until, by the 
use of every right means in our power, we have 


AFTER MANY DA VS. 


377 


sought to prolong it. And one thing more : 
when God shuts one door in the way of his 
children, he never fails to open another. If he 
calls you from here, you may be sure you are 
wanted elsewhere. Now tell me you will go, 
and I’ll help you to make arrangements.” 

“ Leave me for a while,” Mr. Boudinot said ; 
“ let me have an hour or two to consider this 
matter ; then you shall know my decision.” 

Very unwillingly the doctor left him; and 
time went slowly by while Mr. Boudinot prayed 
for guidance and light on his darkened path. 

Home had never seemed more dear, the 
|Sweet home voices had never called to him in 
tenderer tones. He could almost breathe the 
pure sea-air that just then, he knew, was blow- 
ing over Wyona. Loved faces smiled on him, 
and beckoning hands waved to him, and still he 
hesitated. If it was indeed true that he could 
never recover here, if he could be sure that the 
Master, whom he served, and whose he was, 
had need of him elsewhere, then he would go. 

'But otherwise, his own sick longings should not 
tempt from the post where he had been stationed 
with the command, “ Occupy till I come.” 

Thus alone he struggled, until his servant 
came bringing packages and letters. A steamer 
had just arrived, and news from the home for 
which he yearned was in his hand. 

32 *^ 


378 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


Eagerly he opened them. There were letters 
from Margaret, a printed note from maid Marr- 
ion; strong, earnest words of friendship and 
encouragement from Mr. Oxford, and other let- 
ters relating to business and mission-work. 
Over one of these he lingered a long time. It 
was from the President of a flourishing Theo- 
logical Seminary in one of our western cities, 
urging his acceptance of a vacant professorship 
there. 

We need such men as you,” the letter read, 
“ men, strong in the faith, men who cannot be 
shaken by the storms of doubt and unbelief, 
that in these days are beating fiercely around 
us on every side. There are young men here 
who need strengthening. There are others who 
need the touch of Ithuriel’s spear to open their 
eyes to the evil, and make them see and choose 
the right. Come home and help us. We have 
considered this question for days, and with 
strange unanimity our eyes and hearts have 
turned to you. Do not disregard the call, my 
friend ; answer it, and come.” 

When, an hour later, the doctor came for his 
decision, it was given : “ I will go.” 

Quietly and uneventfully as ever the spring 
days glided by with Mildred; but with the 
dawning of early summer came the change of 
which she had spoken to Robert. 


AFTER MANY DA YS. 


379 


Mrs. Franklin’s early life had been spent in 
England, and now, in her old age, she decided 
to take her orphaned grandchildren and return 
to the home and friends of her girlhood. And 
so, one fair June day, Mildred stood on the 
wharf and waved a last farewell to her little, 
pupils, and when they had passed from sight, 
went thankfully home to her uncle. 

“You are my child now,” Mr. Oxford said, 
as he held her close, “ and I shall not let you 
go away again. If you must teach, why I will 
myself take lessons in crayons, water-colors, or 
any other of the fashionable, so-called, fine arts, 
in which you are willing to instruct me, but 
home is not to be left again. Remember that, 
my little girl, and be content to let your light 
shine on the friends to whom you belong.” 

There were many pleasant plans formed that 
evening for the long, bright summer before 
them. Robert was making his last voyage. In 
the autumn he was to begin practice in a neigh- 
boring city ; but that summer he was to spend 
with them, and it was decided that they would 
travel, and have a beautiful holiday together. 

Two or three days after, a letter came to Mil- 
dred, the prelude to events that materially 
changed their arrangements — as follows : 

My Dear Mildred : — I know how happy you are now in 
your uncle’s home ; and — judging them by the fellow-feeling, 


380 


ON THE VVA Y HOME. 


that makes us wondrous wise as well as kind — I know how 
contentedly they are resting in the pleasant belief, that at last 
they have you safe, and that henceforth their ingle-side is to be 
brightened and cheered by your presence. 

I am afraid I shall seem to them much like a thief, who pro- 
poses to steal their dearest treasure, but even that fear cannot 
prevent my presenting my petition. 

My dear, I want you to come to me for a while, at least this 
summer ; and I want you to come at once. There is no time 
like the present. Wyona was never lovelier, nor our hearts 
happier, or fuller of love for you than now. 

Your room is ready. The strawberries are ripening, the 
birds singing. In brief, there is but one thing wanting to 
make Wyona the Eden, to which you once likened it, and 
that is — yourself. 

Will you come ? And by so doing make supremely happy 
Your happy friend, 

Margaret Rockwell. 

With a laughing face Mildred carried the let- 
ter to her aunt. 

“ What can have happened to Mrs. Rock- 
well ? ” she said. “ Her words are fairly dancing 
with joy.' Do you know of anything to make 
her so very happy. Aunt Lilian ? ” 

Mrs. Oxford was reading the letter. “ No,” 
she said, as she folded and returned it to Mil- 
dred. “ I have not heard from Mrs. Rockwell 
since in the spring, and then she was very sad, 
for Mr. Boudinot was sick. One thing we may 
safely infer — that she is relieved of her anxiety 
about him. This invitation — what wilt thee do 
about it?” 


AFTER MANY DA VS, 


381 


Mildred hesitated a moment, then she looked 
fj uikly up. “ I would dearly like to go, Aunt 
Lilian, if Uncle Wallace anc’ you approve. 
Robert will not be home for two weeks yet, and 
I would have time for a pleasant visit before we 
would want to start on our summer trip.” 

**' Yes.” Mrs. Oxford said. “ Well, my dear, 
we must not be selfish, and so for these two 
weeks we must spare thee to Mrs. Rockwell, I 
suppose,” and, with motherly interest, she began 
to talk of the preparations Mildred would need 
to make. 

Two days later Mildred found herself once 
more on the porch of the old farm-house, with 
which so many of her pleasantest memories 
were associated. 

She had come on the morning train ; and 
now, in the pleasant nooning, after an early 
dinner, she sat idly resting and talking with 
Mrs. Rockwell. Maid Marion, now a pretty 
girl of eight, was playing near them ; out on the 
lawn Crusoe was mowing the velvety grass, 
and through the open windows came Barbara’s 
voice singing gayly, as she moved about the 
rooms, performing her household duties. 

“ How changed, and yet unchanged it all is,” 
Mildred said, suddenly; “it seems but a day 
since I came here first, and you feasted me on 
strawberries in your tea-room, do you remem- 


382 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


ber, Mrs. Rockwell ? And yet it is five years 
ago.” 

Mrs. Rockwell smiled. “ Do I remember ? ” 
she said. “ Yes, Mildred. I saw a picture and 
dreamed a dream then, and the one has not 
faded, nor the other deceived me. I am not 
likely to forget that day.” 

“ It was very pleasant,” Mildred said, dream- 
ily. “ Everything was pleasant then, I think. 
I believe I care more for Wyona than any place 
I was ever in, Mrs. Rockwell.” 

“ Wyona would make you a grateful bow, if 
it only knew how,” Mrs. Rockwell said, laugh- 
ingly ; “ but since it doesn’t, suppose you take 
this ? ” and she gently kissed her cheek. “ Mil- 
dred, you haven’t asked me a question about 
Kenneth. I hope you haven’t forgotten him, 
have you ? ” 

“ Forgotten ? ” Mildred said, hurriedly. “ Oh, 
no,” and then she waited for some time, but 
Mrs. Rockwell’s information did not come. 

When are you going to tell me about him, 
Mrs. Rockwell ? ” she asked, desperately. 

“ Whenever you condescend to ask about 
him,” Mrs. Rockwell laughed in answer. No, 
I won’t make such a demand on your powers 
of language,” she added, quickly, in a changed 
voice; “I’ll tell you without questions. I am 
very happy, Mildred, for Kenneth is at home.” 


AFTER MANY DA YS, 


383 


‘^At home ! ” Mildred started and looked 
quickly around. 

“ No ; I don’t mean here,” Mrs. Rockwell 
said, with a smile. “ I mean he is in this coun- 
try. His health failed, and he was obliged to 
leave Africa. He has been home here in Wyona 
for just one day, and then he was forced to go 
West. I expect him back very soon.” 

“And how is he now ? ” 

“ Pretty well ; not as strong as he used to be, 
perhaps, but gaining all the time.” 

“And when does he return to Africa ? ” 

“ Never. Mildred, is this all your boasted 
friendship for me amounts to? I never sup- 
posed you were quite so cold and unsympa- 
thetic. Why, my dear, you haven’t even had 
grace enough to tell me you are glad.” 

Mildred turned and laid her hand on Mrs. 
Rockwell’s, but something in her face touched 
that lady, and she could not find the heart to 
tease her further. 

“ I am afraid you are very tired,” she said, 
after a little pause, “ wouldn’t you like to go to 
your room and rest a while ? ” 

Mildred was conscious just then of a great 
desire to be alone, but not in the house. 

“Is the old orchard still standing?” she 
asked. 

“ Kenneth’s old study ? Oh, yes ; we will 


384 


ON THE WA Y HOME, 


never destroy that while the winds will let it 
stand.” 

“ I’ll go there, then,” Mildred said, rising ; “ I 
would like to see if it is really as I remember it. 
I’ll be back soon,” and taking the light shawl 
Mrs. Rockwell handed her, she started. 

She found the narrow foot-path without diffi- 
culty, and in a few minutes was resting under 
the shade of the same wide-spreading tree, that 
on her two visits there, in that olden summer 
time, she had always selected as- the pleasantest. 

With eyes softened with tender memories 
Mildred looked around her. She recalled the 
sweet, still Sabbath afternoon, when she had 
strolled there first and been found by Mr. Bou- 
dinot and the little girls. The grand old legend 
of the Christ-bearer came back to her with a 
deeper, holier meaning than she had given it in 
her thoughtless girlhood ; and Mildred rejoiced 
that one of that little group had answered so 
faithfully to the cry, Carry me across.” 

Bitter-sweet recollections, of the last talk she 
had listened to, amid the gray shadows of that 
same old orchard, came with their sad, sub- 
duing power; and for many minutes Mildred 
sat there, leaning against the mossy trunk of the 
old tree, her eyes dreamily watching the far, 
faint glimmer of the sea, her heart filled with 
thoughts too deep and holy for tears. 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


385 


She started suddenly, for a shadow came be- 
tween her and the sea, and looking up she met 
the smile of a pleasant face, and heard a glad 
voice say, 

“ Miss Mildred, I hope you haven’t forgotten 
me.” 

If Mr. Boudinot could read her eyes, as for 
one brief moment she looked at him, he knew 
perhaps that his hope was ivell founded. Mil- 
dred gave him no such assurance in words. 
Her head drooped, and the hand he had taken 
trembled violently. 

” Forgive me for taking you so entirely by 
surprise,” he said„ in his old kind voice and 
manner. “ Margaret told me you were here, 
and wanted to .send for you, but I was too im- 
patient to wait. Miss Mildred, won’t you wel- 
come me home?” 

She looked up then and tried to speak. 

“ It is a great surprise,” she said, and then 
the trembling lips compelled silence, and she 
dropped her face in her hands. He was silent 
as well as she, and soon, with the feeling that 
she must say something, Mildred slowly raised 
her head. 

“ I did not know you were coming so soon, 
Mr. Boudinot,” she said. 

“I hope it isn’t too soon, is it?” he asked, 
with his old smile. “ I have taken Margaret a 
33 


z 


386 


ON THE WA Y HOME. 


little by surprise as well as yourself. She did 
not expect me home for two days yet.” 

“She certainly did not expect you at this 
hour,” Mildred said, trying bravely to keep up a 
conversation. “ I came on the morning train, 
Mr. Boudinot, and the evening one is not due 
until six ; how did you get here now ? ” 

He laughed. “ Don’t look at me so sus- 
piciously, Miss Mildred. I don’t carry a flying 
horse in my pocket, if I have just come from the 
land of wonders and magic. I missed the morn- 
ing train for Wyona, else I should have been 
your travelling companion ; but missing that, I 
was not to be foiled in my wish to be here to- 
day. Nothing is impossible to a determined 
will, you know. There was another train just 
ready to start for Ripley, a town ten miles north 
of here. I took that, and from Ripley finished 
my journey in a very ordinary conveyance, called 
a buck-board.” 

He was talking quietly and pleasantly, without 
apparent effort, and yet all the while was watch- 
ing anxiously to see the color and light come 
back to Mildred’s face. 

They came soon. He was so calm, so natural, 
so entirely as she remembered him, that presently 
Mildred’s excitement subsided. The trembling 
nerves grew quiet, as if they felt the control of a 
firm hand, and drawing a long breath, with which 


AFTER MANY DA YS. 


387 


it seemed as if a great weight rolled away, Mil- 
dred turned to him with a bright, happy smile ; 
the first he had seen. 

“ How glad, how very glad Mrs. Rockwell 
must be to have you back,” she said, in her own 
simple, unaffected way. “ Shan’t we go home, 
now, Mr. Boudinot ? I am afraid she wants us.” 

There is no hurry,” he said, quietly. “ Miss 
Mildred, I have not the slightest doubt of Mar- 
garet’s gladness, but before we return to her, 
won’t you make me equally sure of your own?” 

Mildred laughed ; the innocent, happy laugh 
he had often heard in the summer so long gone 
by. 

“ What shall I do to assure you ? she asked ; 
“ did you have your dinner before you came 
here ? ” 

He smiled, and shook his head. “No; it 
was quite forgotten.” 

“ The best proof I can think of, then, will be 
to go home and help Mrs. Rockwell prepare you 
a lunch. Will you go ? ” she asked, rising. 

“No; not just yet. Sit down again. Miss 
Mildred, if you please. I like this old orchard, 
and am in no haste to leave it. Miss Mildred,” 
he continued, more seriously, “ do you remember 
our last talk here ? ” 

“ Yes ; I have never forgotten it, Mr. Bou- 
dinot.” 


'SIS 


ON THE WAY HOME. 


“ Nor I ; but sometimes I have doubted if you 
understood me, then. Do you think you did?” 
he asked, turning suddenly to her, 

“ I think 1 did, Mr. Boudinot.” 

“ May I catechise you a little, then ? Will you 
answer my questions? What did you under- 
stand ?” 

Mildred’s face was very earnest and uncon- 
scious, as she met his eyes. 

“ I understood that you were going away be- 
cause you felt it your duty, and because, though 
it was hard to go, you were glad to prove the 
love you bore our Saviour, by doing as St. 
Christopher did, and obeying, when he bade you 
‘ Carry me across.’ ” 

He looked at her silently a moment, then 
asked : 

‘‘ Did you know what made it so hard for me 
to go ? did you know that you were yourself 
the strongest power that drew me back ? and 
that for you I would have resigned everything 
else except my love and duty to him ? Did you 
know that, Mildred ? ” 

She shook her head. 

“You do know it now,” he said, in a low, 
tender voice. “ Mildred, I have come back, as I 
went away, holding you dearer than anything 
else in this world. And now that you know all 
this, what will you say to me ? ” 


AFTER MANY DA VS. 


389 


There was a whispering among the birds in 
the branches over their heads, and a trembling 
of the leaves, as a soft, warm wind swept through 
them, but the words for which he waited did not 
come. 

“ Have you no answer for me ? ” he asked. 

She looked up then. I will do what I can,” 
she said, softly ; using, unconsciously, the old, 
familiar phrase that often in the summer of long 
ago he had heard and smiled to hear. And 
simple as the words were, he knew how full of 
solemn promise they were to her. 

“ Don’t you think Mildred very much im- 
proved, Kenneth ? ” Mrs. Rockwell asked, mis- 
chievously, that evening when, after so many 
years, the three were once more together in the 
pleasant porch. 

“ Yes, very,” he answered, with praiseworthy 
gravity; “she is all, now, that in my fondest 
dreams, I used to fancy her.” 

Mrs. Rockwell laughed brightly. “ He sees 
you still through the glamour of that dazzling 
African sunshine, Mildred,” she said, as she 
arose and went into the house to answer a sudden 
call from Marion. 

Mr. Boudinot leaned forward and brought 
Mildred closer. “ Do you believe that ? ” he 
asked, with a smile. 

33 * 


390 


ON THE WA y HOME. 


I don’t know,” she answered, shyly. But in 
a moment she looked up, with pure, radiant 
eyes, into his face. 

** I do know this,” she said, earnestly. ** If we 
had never spent that summer here in Wyona, if 
you had not gone to Africa, and I had never 
known the changes and discipline of the past 
years, I should never have been what I am now. 
Not what you say I am,” she added, humbly; 
** not what I long to be, but nearer being it all 
because nearer to Christ. I understand it all 
now,” she continued, reverently. **God has led 
us aright, through all these years. I don’t think 
I will ever be afraid to trust to his guidance 
again.” 

There was silence for a little while in the sea- 
scented, starlit porch, and then, in a voice heard 
only by Mildred, Mr. Boudinot repeated Faith’s 
humble prayer, of trust and sweet reliance : 

*“0 Father-eye, that hath so truly watched, 

O Father-hand, that hath so gently led, 

O Father-heart, that by my prayer is touched. 

That loved me first, when I was cold and dead : 

Still do thou lead me on with faithful care 

The narrow path to heaven, where I would go ; 

And train me for the life that waits me there. 

Alike through love and loss, through weal and woe.’ ” 


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